Across the Void
by Norwest
Summary: An Imperial fleet arrives in the Terran Dominion.  This is their story.
1. Regrouping

_This fic__ was inspired by Toasterman's _fuckawesome_ Starcraft/40k fic,"The Confederate." Basic plot is: uberfuntastic Starcraft character gets sent into the grimdark far future. While I was reading it, I thought "Hey, what would happen if you sent some people the other way?"_

_After reading the reviews I've been getting, I'll be slowly revising my older chapters (like this one) to be 1) less confusing and 2) more fun (hopefully). Reviews and criticism appreciated, as always!_

_So, shutting up now, and…well…enjoy!_

**Also, just for reference:**

"A character is talking."

_A character is thinking._

* * *

**Primary flight deck, battleship _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 21, 998.M41**

_Parade duty. We live through Trieste, and they give us __parade duty._

"Officers..." newly-promoted Sergeant Mathias sighed to himself, as if it explained everything. Perhaps it did. Mathias and the rest of the '1st Trieste Regiment' (although everyone just kept their old unit insignia) was assembled in the _Armageddon's_ cavernous main landing bay, lasguns at their sides and wearing whatever kit they'd held onto during the fight. Mathias wasn't sure, but scuttlebutt held that the other survivors had been 'regimented' and were, like him, held on the other ships of the fleet. The ribbed ceiling of the bay echoed from the pounding of thousands of boots, and Mathias spared a glance at the activity.

Another regiment was pouring into the room from recessed hallways, and Mathias could see the newly-promoted command staff of the Trieste Guard moving towards the raised dais at the front of the room. Mathias sighed…speech time. Despite the ever-vigilant priests and commissars prowling at the edges of the formation, Mathias felt his eyelids drooping.

The figure who ascended the dais, however, instantly woke Mathias up. A Space Marine, high-ranking too by the looks of his armor, was going to make a speech. Having been rescued from the 'nids by the Imperial Hawks back on Trieste, Mathias had a healthy respect (and fear, too) of the Marines. He'd seen them slaughter Gaunts faster than orbital support could, beat an ambushing Lictor to the attack, and take on 'fexes – and win. But seeing a Marine speak? _This_ was new.

* * *

Captain Nicodemus, 4th Company, Mentor Legion, _hated_ speeches. When given the choice between leading an incursion into the Eye of Terror or giving lectures to the Cadian command staff, Nicodemus had foisted the speech-making on one of his lieutenants and spent several weeks happily hunting Bloodthirsters.

If the Chapter Master himself hadn't ordered it, Nicodemus would have point-blank refused the request from Ultima Segmentum Command, _and damn the consequences, too_. Turn a rabble of broken, disunified survivors into working Guard regiments? Make a functioning fleet out of the remnants of an entire Sector Fleet and its inexperienced crew? _By the Emperor, most of them don't even speak the same language!_

But he'd been ordered, so Nicodemus and the 4th Company had come to the 157th Fleet to turn broken, hollow men into functioning soldiers again. And to add to the Captain's agony, Mentors lore recommended a rousing speech to inspire the scattered Guardsmen. The Captain gazed across the suddenly-quiet ranks of Guardsmen, frowning at their lack of discipline; nearly all the soldiers stood in the characteristic "veteran's slouch." Still, he had to privately admit that they'd earned it. _How many of them were left? One out of a hundred? A thousand? Frakkit._

A massive bio-enhanced giant, resplendent in gold filigree and his green-white armor, Nicodemus was (deliberately) imposing for normal humans. He knew he'd need whatever respect he could get from the Guardsmen for what came next. Removing his helm, the Mentor presented his bone-white face to the Guardsmen and holo-'corders broadcasting across the fleet.

_1. Name previous victories._

"I am Captain Nicodemus," his vox-enhanced voice boomed. "I have fought the Emperor's enemies for over 500 years, across three Segmentums. I have triumphed against the Orks, Tyranids, Eldar, and the Great Enemy." _and the other missions I can't talk about_.

_2. Name previous defeats._

"I have been defeated in combat numerous times." Muttering from the assembled soldiers; this already-unexpected speech had taken another strange turn. "I have lost to Eldar xenos in sword combat, been swarmed by Tyranids, and lost my bearings from Chaos treachery." The room erupted in an outbreak of whispering, despite the Commissars' best efforts to silence it.

_3. Explain._

"None of these enemies who bested me yet live today, while I stand before you untouched. I live today because of my comrades, my discipline, and my faith." A massive armored hand swept over the assembled Marines: "These warriors provided a bulwark and strength and ." Another dramatic sweep: "My reliance on the proven tactics of our ancestors, handed down through millennia of experience, kept let me triumph against all foes." _Chew on that, Reinholdt!_ "My faith in the Emperor and the Imperium has kept me clear of doubt, despite the foes that I faced."

_4. Conclude._

"Guardsmen of the Imperium, you have faced the Great Devourer and triumphed through the actions of your comrades, your use of true Imperial ideals, and your faith. My Mentors will continue to lead and inspire you through your next campaign, and teach you to better destroy the Imperium's foes." _And now for the kicker..._ "The regiment which performs best in the upcoming campaign shall be rewarded with retirement. Its members will be sent to their home planets or given land and work on Trieste, along with a lifelong pension."

There weren't too many cheers; it wasn't that sort of speech. As officers and noncoms ushered their men back to their quarters, the soldiers of the Trieste Guard considered the possibility of actually escaping the Imperial Guard. Little more than a pipe dream on most planets, ("Once you're in the Guard, you're in to stay" was the saying) the specter of freedom now hung above the dispirited men. Many Guardsmen did not believe the Marine's promise, while others were still too shell-shocked to notice. Slowly but surely, however, the dream of 'retirement' began to take root.

* * *

Exiting the swarming hall, Nicodemus approached a door guarded by a silent, bolter-armed Marine. Although his face-concealing helm hid his expression, the Captain could tell by his stance that he was grinning.

"Another rousing speech, _my_ _lord_."

Nicodemus responded with a grin of his own. "Cut the groxshit, _Sergeant_."

"Of course, my lord. I exist merely to facilitate the elucidative exchange of relevant information."

Closing and dogging the hatch as they continued towards the bridge, Nicodemus let out a laugh. "By the Emperor, I will _never _make another speech!" His grin fading, the Mentors Legionnaire glanced at the dataslate he held. "The Lady-Commissar is unhappy with our efforts again?"

"The Lady-Commissar exists in a state of perpetual rage. We've merely been the target for this latest outburst."

"Still, she does have a way with words: '…the seditious leanings of the Mentors Legion, particularly when compared with the virtuous efforts of the Imperial Hawks…' how are they faring, anyway?"

The sergeant cocked his head slightly. "They report near-total cleansing of the infestation, and they're due back in two weeks or less."

"So, planet cleared but friendly forces still broken?"

"More or less, my lord. Morale reached rock-bottom a month ago and started digging. Discipline's a mess, resupply efforts are an awful joke, and less than a fourth of the equipment is combat-ready." Sergeant Cato, a child Guardsman prior to being recruited into the Mentors Legion, always kept a keen eye on his allies' supplies and morale.

Nicodemus sighed. "Very well. Aside from our little relations-building efforts, is there any further help incoming from Segmentum Command?"

The sergeant consulted his HUD. "Resupply is promised, along with additional equipment to make up for vehicle and aircraft losses. A Deep-Range Explorator Fleet will rendezvous with the fleet tomorrow. They've promised to repair, refit, and overhaul anything with more than one moving part."

"Good news for a change. How goes the training?"

"It goeth, it goeth but slowly, my lord. Your little speech helped, but we've been forced to integrate twenty different sets of tactics and strategy. Progress has been slow at best."

"Teach our more experimental tactics, but claim that they're traditional. This mission may be far beyond our usual efforts, but let's make the most of it and use the whole battlegroup as a testing ground."

"Understood, my lord."

* * *

Leaving Cato behind, Nicodemus entered the muted bridge.

_Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap._

"Congratulations, Captain. You've managed to single-handedly wreck the fearsome reputation that the Imperial Hawks spent so long instilling in the Trieste Guard." The shadow of Lady-Commissar Reinholdt detached itself from the wall as the short, stocky woman strode towards the hulking Space Marine. "Now we can happily motivate our Guardsmen with stories of how a near-legendary Marine officer was defeated by the same foes they face!"

Nicodemus grunted. "Good to see you too."

Looking away from the furiously glaring Lord-Commissar, the Captain glanced around the bridge. Servitors, menials, and officers worked at various consoles, the hum and scattered whispers of a ship at rest filling the room. The Marine's enhanced vision picked out two red glimmers near the shadowed captain's chair: the Admiral was watching.

"Good morning, captain. I trust your little…speech was successful?" the reedy voice echoed from above. Although it might sound weak, Nicodemus had seen that same voice raised in battle in the holo-recordings, and recognized the steel that lay under the Admiral's light tone.

"Likely, Admiral. Unit camaraderie is still weak, however. The Mentors will require at least one month to train the men effectively."

A flutter in the shadows as the Admiral waved his hand. "Take your time, Captain. The fleet will remain for at least two months as the Mechanicus restores and restocks."

"Leaving the Imperium without our help!" the commissar exploded. "Planets are under siege, good Imperial citizens in danger, while we twiddle our thumbs and _wait_!"

"Enough!" The Marine didn't glance at the newcomer. Striding into the bridge, cloak flapping and armored boots echoing on the deck, newly-promoted Governor-General Kalj glared at the Lady-Commissar. "Right now, I wouldn't trust my men to win against Ratlings! We need training, we need weapons, and we need time most of all!"

Glancing around the suddenly-still bridge, Nicodemus idly wondered what the lower-decks rumor mill would make of this. "Sirs, perhaps we should adjourn to a briefing room to continue this conversation."

Glaring at the Marine and the General, Reinholdt realized that she was outnumbered. "This isn't over," she shot over her shoulder as she stomped from the bridge.

"Indeed it isn't," he murmured quietly, before glancing back up at the shadow-shrouded Admiral. "Full fleet meeting, your quarters, 1700 tomorrow, all relevant parties." Pivoting on one heel, he strode out from another hatch.

"He does realize that he lacks power over me?" the Admiral commented to the Marine.

"More likely that he simply doesn't care," Nicodemus responded. "Besides, with his armed veterans berthed in all of your ships, he does hold a fairly important bargaining chip over you."

"And without my communications gear, he can't incite those men to revolt."

"Perhaps then, Admiral, you should consult with the Guard's astropaths and psyker teams before making such a claim."

The Admiral remained hidden, but the Marine knew he was scowling. "Bastard."

"True," the Marine responded. "Still, it would behoove you to host that meeting."

* * *

**Admiral's quarters, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 25, 998.M41**

The Admiral's stately public rooms were filled nearly to capacity with the flood of dignitaries. Fleet Captains rubbed shoulders with the officer corps of the newly-created Trieste Guard Regiments. Several red-robed, high-ranking Mechanicus Techpriests stood out among the crowd, while white-robed Navy and Guard chaplains jostled for attention.

Nicodemus held his own personal space by virtue of his large bulk and human-sized weapons. While every human in the room carried sidearms, as required by Imperial law, most were purely ceremonial. Interestingly enough, the Captain noted that many of the lower-ranking Fleet officers and virtually all of the Guardsmen present possessed weapons with battle damage on it. The Marine nodded his head slowly, surprising the skittish adjutant in front of him: the Fleet had taken severe damage from Tyranid mycetic spores, and the Guard command posts had frequently come under heavy attack.

The entire room, in fact, was distinctly uneasy. Generally, an integrated fleet like this would have spent months or years in transit before reaching combat, giving time for the feudal factions in the Imperial system to make a lasting peace and establish a semi-stable hierarchy. This fleet, formed from the remnants of the Navy and Guard units sent into the meatgrinder at Trieste, was on edge as the various elements of Imperial power jockeyed for power.

Nicodemus, once trained by an astropath to recognize Warp signs, suddenly recognized the ozone stink of it on his right. Casually dropping his gauntleted hands to rest near his weapons, the Marine turned to face the psyker addressing him.

"So, Captain, are you enjoying yourself yet?"

The Captain's mouth twisted. _Psyker: estimate Primaris-level._ "Today is a perfectly good day to kill more xenos, and yet I wait hand and foot on a puffed-up noble. Tell me, should I be enjoying myself?"

The psyker smirked. "You Marines and your work. Tell me, then, did you enjoying admitting your faults to the men of the fleet today? Did that little soul-clearing help that duty of yours?"

The Marine's features softened. _Use chainsword, cut before target can counter with Warp-shielding. Chance of success high._ "My duty here, psyker, is to train the humans of this fleet to better serve the Emperor. If I can do so by admitting my faults and making myself appear 'human,' I will do so." Nicodemus's face hardened again. "And if half of the men must die to make the others fight like daemons, I will carry out the executions with my bare hands."

The Warp-signs rose again. _Post-operation evacuation routes: left 15m, rear 12m, above 8m._ "Well, Captain, I'll leave you to your homicidal thoughts. And do you really think that I'm without chainsword-proof shielding right now?"

…_Well, s_t._

* * *

_Aah…sweet, sweet politics_. The Admiral savored the moment, before nodding to his herald. With flying cherubs blaring trumpet music from implanted voice-casters and blowing miniature cornets above his head, the still-shrouded Admiral entered the main hall and sat on his tertiary command throne.

"Attention! The Admiral speaks!" the herald bellowed, pounding the floor once with his shock-staff. Surveying the crowd, the Admiral began to speak quietly, forcing the assembled dignitaries to lean in to hear him.

"Lords and ladies of the Ultima Segmentum's 157th Fleet, we stand at a crossroads. Our fleet is battered, our Guardsmen divided. Although the Imperium's many enemies continue to press on, we must rest and gather our strength before facing them in open-"

"Cowardice! Rank cowardice, from the very leaders who must inspire the lower ranks!" A priest burst from the milling crowds, shaking his fist at the dais. Nicodemus could see naval security troopers closing in, although slowed by the crowds. "The true Imperials here shall not stand for this treas-" WHUMP.

The priest dropped like a rock, the flat of Nicodemus's chainsword impacting in his gut. As he crumpled slowly, wheezing for air, the crowds shifted. None of them missed the shift; by striking the dissenter, Nicodemus had just cast himself (and his Marines) alongside the Admiral.

"Continue, please."

* * *

**Unknown location**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**22.4.998.M41**

The room was pitch black, lit only by several pin-pricks of red light. It would seem barren to un-augmented eyes; only those with the right blessings could see the Presence that lurked there. The twin lights approached the Presence, tilting downwards as the first figure bowed.

**News?**

-Objective reached. Commencing primary objective.-

**Continue without delay. Avoid discovery at all costs.**

-What shall we do if it occurs?-

**The project must take priority.**

-And if they resist?-

**Execute plan Omega.  
**

* * *

_So, that's the chapter! A few quick notes:_

_1. This fic will have plenty of talky-talky alongside the shooty-shooty. As a politics major, I've always been interested in the crazy neo-feudalism of the 40k Imperium, so their crazy politics will get plenty of space on the page. If you're looking for a fic with more BOOM FOR THE BOOM GOD!, try "My Other Car Is A Warhound" (crappy name, I know), which is basically '4 psychos and a Titan.' Aaand if you want to see some hawt Starcraft on 40k action, try Toasterman's "The Confederate."_

_2. If you thought Nicodemus's public speech was pretty crappy, then consider: why should a Marine be any good at public speaking? Basically, I'm trying to show a Marine acting as best as he can in a situation that he's totally unprepared for. Comments/criticism on this sort of thing are very welcome; let me know what you think!_


	2. The Event

**Training room, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 25, ****998.M41**

Sergeant Mathias was exhausted. This was unusual.

To better understand this situation, one must first picture the good Sergeant. At nearly two meters tall, heavily muscled and well-conditioned, Mathias had been trained since childhood on Cadia to serve as a Guardsman, and had the peak physical stamina to boot. Calling him "stronger than an ox" was, considering your average ox, _not_ a misnomer.

"Fuggit, fuggit, can't keep going!" Mathias panted after yet another lap around the _Armageddon_'s landing bay.

"You dishonor the Emperor by your refusal to sacrifice!" the _Bitch_ yelled, running backwards alongside the group with that damned ground-eating pace that she'd kept up the entire time. Damnit, she wasn't even breathing too hard yet!

"Yes, Lady-Commissar!" Mathias yelled back, in unison with the rest of his squad. As Reinholdt slowed to a walk, the Sergeant and his men followed suit. They were all short of breath, fatigues stained through with sweat and grime. Several men dashed to the side, emptying their breakfasts into the wastebins.

"You WILL be cleaning those later!" Lady-Commissar Reinholdt bellowed, gesturing with her chainsword to order the squad into a semblance of order. "Now that your warmup is done, we will commence with close-order drill!"

Mathias's eyes widened as the _Devil_ stepped out from the corridor in front of his team. His green-white power armor and full helmet gave him some anonymity, but Sergeant Mathias recognized this particular Mentor through the extra sensors attached to the left side of his helmet.

Sergeant Cato, bane of the 1st Trieste Regiment's life for the past month.

The _Devil_ faced the squad, drawing a mock chainsword as the exhausted soldiers slowly fixed wooden bayonets and stacked themselves two men deep.

"Begin!"

* * *

**Admiral's quarters, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 25, ****998.M41**

"Ammunition stocks?"

"Omnissiah willing, we will have replenished fleet ammunition to 74.2% of full capacity within three days. Small arms capacity is fully replenished, and Guard artillery stocks are projected to be completed by tomorrow."

The representative from the Explorator Fleet, in a rare show of humanity from the Adeptus Mechanicus, spoke in High Imperial instead of binary. The Admiral responded in kind: "Status on small-craft reconstruction and repair?"

"Unknown. The Explorator Fleet's workshops are already at capacity in order to replenish ammunition, and the Fleet possesses only one Forge Ship. We require more time."

The Admiral sighed. "We don't have the time. An astropath message from Segmentum Command just ordered us to a deserted system several parsecs away to rendezvous with a new Crusade fleet. We'll continue repairs along the way, but we must move immediately."

Captain Nicodemus sighed. "With due respect, Admiral, our training is far from completed. The Mentors will _not_ leave while our task remains unfinished. In addition, the Imperial Hawks will be left vulnerable if we withdraw our fleet presence while they continue ground operations."

"It can't be helped. I shall warn the Hawks and their auxiliaries. Jung!" An astropath, cheeks sunken and eyes burned out, stepped towards the Admiral. "Let them know."

* * *

**Appx. 150 meters underground**

**Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 25, 998.M41**

The staccato _boom_ of a bolter rolled and echoed throughout the caves. Corporal Thorosis of the Imperial Hawks stepped over the rapidly-cooling corpse of a Tyranid Hormagaunt, his muzzle tracking through the larger cave.

"Nightsight," he whispered, his suit's autosenses lighting up the pitch-black cave like day. "All clear."

The three Marines of his kill-team quickly stacked up behind the Corporal before they entered the cave, spreading out once they'd passed the small opening. "Sound, 10 o'clock," Three muttered over the squad vox, his external speakers disabled for the mission.

Craning his Larriman's Ear, Thorosis could hear the faint but distinct sound of claws on rock. "Make a hole!"

Four, unshipping a satchel charge, placed it on the approximate area of wall the scratching seemed to be originating from. The "detonate" rune flashed in the Corporal's helmet as Four armed the charge and stepped back.

"Set."

"Squad, 5-meter spread. Prepare to breach."

Each Marine dropped to a knee, boltguns – and Two's plasmagun – facing towards the explosives placed on the wall.

"Fire in the hole."

**BOOM.**

Even as the explosives detonated, the Marines were firing their weapons at the newly-made hole in the cave wall. The rocket-propelled shells shot themselves into the next cave, detonating and sending red-hot shrapnel through the massed Tyranids inside.

"Weapons free." _Let's see how they like grenades._

"Frag out!" Four yelled, throwing a cocked frag grenade into the next room. Bouncing off the far cave wall with an innocuous _tink-tink-tink_, the grenade came to rest underneath a clump of Genestealers packed too tightly to move, before detonating and painting the walls with purple blood.

Several seconds later, the firing slackened off as the Marines lost sight of further targets. The dust kicked up by the explosions slowly settled, revealing a mess of xenos bodies sprinkled with shell fragments and wreathed with spent cordite. _Still nothing._

"Rolling reload," the Corporal ordered, swapping the clip out on his bolter. As he finished, Two vented his plasmagun, sending up a cloud of steam. While Three and Four finished their staggered reloading, Thorosis considered his available options.

Clapping his hands together once, he listened for the resulting echoes. The cave bounced the echo in random directions, but the Marine's enhanced hearing let him approximate the size of the next chamber.

_Fairly large…_"Call the support in," he ordered. Four inclined his head slightly as he sent the request. "ETA, one minute."

Their eight hearts slowly beating in near-unison, the four Imperial Hawks knelt and waited.

* * *

**Training room**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 25, 998.M41**

"Mercy," Mathias pleaded.

The green-white giant remained impassive. "Mercy? Will your enemies show you mercy?"

Mathias grunted, unwilling to give up the argument. The _Devil_ stepped closer. "Again. Form your team up and try again."

The Cadian snapped. "We don't have power armor, you bastard! We're regular little humans, with bones that snap if you shoot them and guns that might as well be las-sights for all the damage they do!" Ignoring the Lady-Commissar, who was already reaching for her bolt pistol, Mathias shook his finger at the Marine. "We're weak, we're slow, we don't stand a chance!"

The _Devil_ shook his helmeted head. "You're stronger than you think." He gestured to his own armor. "Weak points at the joints. Eyepieces vulnerable to las-shots or bayonet stabs. Reactor will shut down if it takes enough damage." He gestured at Mathias's squad. "Alone? You don't stand a chance. Ten of you, against one of me? Possible."

Slowly nodding his head, Mathias suddenly felt the cold circle of a bolt pistol press against his temple. _Talk about an ironic death…_ "Sergeant, for insubordination against a member of the Adeptus Astartes, I hereby sentence you-"

"HOLD!" Expecting death, Mathias cracked his eyes open to see the Mentor's chainsword knocking the Lady-Commissar's bolt pistol down.

Holstering her pistol with a sour look, the Lady-Commissar strode out of the room with a sour look.

The Mentor faced the exhausted Guardsmen. "Again. This time, use your numbers to flank me and aim for weak points."

* * *

"I thank you for your help, Lady-Commissar."

Reinholdt scowled. "A direct 'request' from your gracious Captain didn't leave me much choice, did it?"

Sergeant Cato smiled under his helm. "Indeed not, Lady-Commissar. However, our little show, once the lower decks seize on the gossip, will cement the soldiers' conceptions of friends and enemies."

"By setting my Commissars and I as the ineffectual threat at their backs, and your power armored clowns as their 'dear friends?' Forgive me if I fail to follow your logic."

Cato scowled. "The soldiers who fought on Trieste are broken, Reinholdt! They've faced hell itself and lived – you saw that man you threatened today, yes?"

"I saw a weakling, who would rather shame himself than sacrifice everything necessary for victory!" Reinholdt thundered.

Cato, assisted by his suit's vox-caster, bellowed back louder: "FRAK THAT!" He dropped his voice slightly: "Look at them. Didn't you see their eyes? They respected Mathias, probably liked him, too, but they didn't do shit-all about it when he was threatened. Even Kriegans - hell, even Mordians wouldn't let you get away with executing a good non-com on bad pretenses like what we cooked up back there."

Reinholdt nodded slightly. "I know. I was assigned to a Catachan battlegroup as my first posting out of the scholam; the other commissar graduates were too damn weak to keep up with the mudsuckers. The first day, I caught an LT with his pants around his ankles outside the command bunker." Cato said nothing, already knowing how the story would end. Reinholdt continued: "I was about to shoot him, when I looked around and saw one of his squads nearby. They didn't have to say anything - I knew I'd be carved up the moment I pulled the trigger." The commissar faced the Marine again. "That? That worked. Those men were crazy frakkers, but they were loyal to their own, and it took me two years of slogging through the same shit they fought in before they'd trust me. I understand that loyalty."

The commissar gestured towards the deserted training room. "Those idiots? They're a mongrel pack of Masalians, Harakoni, Rhandans, even some natives as well. The only thing they have in common is enough luck to live through Trieste. You can't give them that same fire. Without loyalty to motivate those soldiers, we _need_ to put something frightening behind them to keep them in line. Face it, Marine - you need me."

Cato nodded. "No. These new regiments will never be like Catachan Dogs or Vostroyan Firstborn. Motivating them on fear alone, though? That would work for penal regiments, but what happens when we arm them? When we take those same frightened men and give them Leman Russes to kill us with, what do we rely on then?"

"So what's your solution?"

The Marine never paused. "Move them forward. Focus their eyes on the future, instead of their Warp-damned past. We give them hope."

* * *

**Appx. 150 meters underground**

**Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 25, 998.M41**

The cave's stillness was broken by the muted sounds of stomping. Forty-two boots pounded through areas cleared by the Imperial Hawks, as two squads of the Mordian 56th Regiment and their attached Commissar arrived at Corporal Thorosis's position.

The Marine didn't bother glancing up at the marching Mordians. He already knew that every decoration would be polished and gleaming, every coat set in place, without any of the bloodstains they'd suffered after the events of the day before. Thorosis actually felt some respect for them and their discipline, although they were still far below Marine standards. With his eyes fixed on the newly-blasted cave entrance, Thorosis addressed the newly-arrived Guardsmen.

"Sergeant, Commissar, expect a large cave inside. Provide support at your discretion; we will assault directly."

The two men didn't salute, instead muttering to their own men. They formed up behind the four kneeling Marines, lasguns pointed forward in perfect synchronicity.

"Execute."

With no sound louder than a slight scrape on the floor, the four Imperial Hawks went to a full sprint. Behind them, the twenty-one Mordians rushed forward, lasguns at port arms and safeties off.

The Marines burst through the entrance one at a time, the Corporal's armor turning aside rippers and needler spines as he continued forward. Two dashed left, racing for cover as he readied the ever-unstable plasmagun. Three jumped right, his red-armored frame flying two meters as he threw an already-primed frag grenade deep into the cavern before him.

Now that he'd cleared the doorway, Corporal Thorosis could afford a glance at the cave he'd just entered. With a high, vaulted ceiling, it would likely have been a tourist attraction prior to the Tyranids arriving. Now, it looked like a scene out a horror-holo that Thorosis had seen once during a hive infiltration. Mucus-covered webbing was haphazardly strung across the ceiling, with dark, quivering nodes dotted around like ghoulish stars. A pulsing mass of flesh rose from the approximate middle of the cave, with claws and spines unevenly jutting from its sides. The Genestealer Patriarch: sire of the local Genestealer brood and a dangerous future threat for the Imperium on Trieste.

Another spine clanging against his armor drew the Marine back to more immediate threats. Genestealers, 'stealer hybrids, and various Gaunt species were rushing towards the new arrivals, and Thorosis's bolter was already tracking and firing as they closed.

His Larriman's Ear detected boots on stone, and Thorosis dived for a stone outcropping as Four followed suit. As soon as they'd cleared the firing lane, lasbolts sped downrange as the Mordian 56th added their firepower. Bolts of brilliant blue plasma were already speeding towards the closing Tyranids, as Two's plasmagun decided to cooperate.

Bolter rounds impacted and detonated on Tyranid Gaunts and Genestealers, as the plasma bolts struck the Genestealer Patriarch. The bloated monstrosity shrieked and the Genestealer hybrids responded in kind, waving clubs and basic weapons as they charged the Imperials. Lasbolts struck them and the hard chitin of the basic Tyranid forms as the Mordians continued firing, but the Tyranid's momentum was too high to be quickly stopped.

Several Gaunt forms charged the Corporal and Four, who drew their combat knives in near-perfect unison. Two crescendos of sound accompanied the pair of grenades that Three had just thrown in front of the two leading Marines, the twin explosions shredding several Tyranids and breaking the charge of the others.

A Hormagaunt threw itself at Thorosis, who plunged his knife directly into its nearest eye, before swinging his knife hand to club a Genestealer on the side of the head. The 'stealer, disoriented by the blow, wandered into the Mordians' firing lane and was immediately shredded. Staggering slightly from another Genestealer which had caught him off-balance, the Corporal leaned back and fired his bolter one-handed into the snarling beast. The armor-piercing shell, still within its minimum detonation distance, continued onward as the Marine slammed his backwards-held knife into the 'stealer's head.

The Genestealer collapsed, as the Corporal dared a look up to realize that the fire was slackening off. The Tyranid forms had been wiped out by the Imperial's assault, and Two's plasmagun had shredded the Patriarch. Nodding his head at the results – enemy presence destroyed, no friendly casualties – Corporal Thorosis allowed himself a rare smile.

"Move. Assemble at extraction point Beta."

* * *

**Admiral's quarters, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Trieste II, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 26, 998.M41**

The Admiral straightened up, abandoning his usual light-show theatrics as the Omnissiah representative entered his receiving room. Light-shows only worked on people who didn't see cosmic radiation on a constant basis.

"Status on fleet repairs?"

The Omnissiah representative blinked his augmented eyes. "Nearly complete. We have assigned highest priority to repairing the engines and Gellar field generators, and have reached 99.4% completion today." _Exhale_. _Say it just like you've practiced._ "We have also upgraded the Gellar generators with newer Ryza-developed models."

The Admiral frowned slightly. "Ryza-developed? How long have those crazies been testing this 'new field generator?'"

"Only during the past millennia, my Lord, but they have achieved 99.7-percent success in all 1,483,921 recorded flights. In addition, they predict a fleet-wide increase of approximately 21-percent maximum speed."

The Admiral considered the situation for a second. "Very well. If it works, send my compliments to Ryza."

_Thank Him…_ "I shall, my Lord. Any further questions?"

"None. You may leave."

Exiting the echoing chamber, the emissary fought the urge to wipe his brow. A minor bio-enhancement had removed his need to perspire, but the urge always showed up when he was stressed. _Still, mission accomplished - they still don't know._

* * *

**Bridge, battleship _Armageddon_**

**Trieste system, Ultima Segmentum**

**May 29, 998.M41**

"Fleet reports readiness, my Lord."

Seated on his primary command throne, the Admiral smiled. "Very well. Navigator, are you prepared?"

"Ready, my Lord."

"Very well. Captain?"

Captain Nicodemus jumped slightly, catching himself at the last moment. No human eye could pick up the movement, but a slight chuckling over the squad-channel let him know that his reaction hadn't gone unnoticed. "My Lord?"

"Any reports from the Imperial Hawks?"

"They are leaving now aboard several Thunderhawks."

"Good. Fleet, stand by for Warp jump."

Deep within the massive _Armageddon_, gears and levers shifted under the watchful ministrations of several Techpriests. The ship's Gellar field generator, already primed several hours earlier, finally spun to full life.

…Nicodemus shifted slightly as the entire bridge shook, crewman jumping to avoid shifting equipment…

…Deep within the _Armageddon_, Sergeant Mathias and the men of the 1st Trieste Regiment watched uneasily as groans echoed throughout the mighty adamantium hull…

…crewmen and Techpriests ran from the sparking Gellar generator, furious shouts and binary-chatters accompanying their retreat as arcing electricity flash-fried several ratings…

…a bulk freighter, pressed into service and unable to handle the stresses of the growing singularity, broke apart with a silent scream of tortured metal…

…daemons and beasts of Chaos, returning after fleeing from the Shadow in the Warp, ripped and tore at the edges of reality…

…Corporal Thorosis's Thunderhawk shuddered under the strain, the sturdy airframe fighting stresses it was never designed to handle…

…within the Thunderhawk, the Mordian Guardsmen continued staring at their counterparts across the Marine-sized aisle as reality broke apart around them…

…'normal' laws of physics ceased to apply as a new series of laws imposed themselves…

And with a massive explosion of radiation in all observable spectra, the unnamed Fleet disappeared completely from the universe.

* * *

"Sir? Sir? You should see this."

"Is it more important than the Zerg about to overrun my people?"

"Umm…yessir."

"Private, if you drag me out here for nothing then you're getting reassigned to Reaper school…oh."


	3. First Contact

_Archon of Darkness: Thanks! I'll do my best._

_Obsessed Nuker: recently-promoted Governor-General Kalj (him of the short ch. 1 cameo) is technically in charge of the new Trieste Regiments. Considering that Trieste had a PDF numbering in the hundreds prior to the Tyranid invasion, what this translates to is a giant clusterf*** for him and a serious issue for the Guardsmen. They're all formed from bits and pieces of other units, so Kalj's power is limited. Lady-Commissar Reinholdt, by virtue of the Commissars agreeing on most Commissar-y things (forward is good, backwards is *BLAM*), means she has more power than she normally would. She's personally supervising training exercises mostly because it's a political stunt which the Mentors forced her to do, and partly because the Guardsmen are short-staffed on training, and need anyone with experience to teach. The fleet reached FUBAR status a while ago._

_Yes, I realize it's currently muddy as hell, and doesn't make enough sense cuz I'm dribbling out chapters one by one. I'm looking to show this all as quick as I can, but ultimately in this case it's Imperial command as usual…aka a giant SNAFU. Also, writing about crazy neo-feudal politics is a LOT of fun. :)_

_RogalDorn: I love reviews, and always try to answer them if I can. (because I'm a total review whore, but don't tell anyone :P) _

_1. Never doubt the power of scary shit over long enough time to break down anyone's mental defenses. Tyranids are _scary_ mofos, and the Hive Mind eventually learned how to play with its food properly. Poor Guardsmen..._

_2. That "Ryza-made" Gellar upgrade? Hmm: put new engines in, crazy shit happens… ;)_

* * *

**Appx. 5 km above ground**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

An Imperial Thunderhawk is an unbelievably tough craft, more of a flying tank than a lander. Flown by pilots with somewhat unethical enhancements 'gifted' by the Chapter's Apothecaries, and with armor much thicker than a Leman Russ tank, a Thunderhawk can take a Basilisk shell without crashing.

Against the fury of the Warp rifts generated by the 'upgraded' Gellar fields, the Thunderhawk's defenses were slightly more effective than wet paper.

Careening through the pristine sky, the out-of-control craft plunged down as the pilots desperately tried to turn their nosedive into a more controlled fall. The four Marines in the ship's belly strapped themselves in and waited, praying quietly, while the Mordian Guardsmen joined in. One panicking Guardsman yanked himself out of his seat and, shrieking, ran towards the cockpit. The Commissar's bolt round hit him before he'd taken two steps.

"Good shot!" Corporal Thorosis boomed over the noises of destruction around them. Corporal and Commissar glanced at each other, sharing a moment of connection, before turning to their respective groups and beginning a prayer.

"What is your life?" Thorosis yelled.

A dull _ka-boom_ announced the port engine's destruction, and the Thunderhawk tilted as the pilots struggled to right it.

"**My honor is my life!**"

"What is your fate?"

With a sudden _shreek_, a chunk of metal plating tore loose from the cabin hull, the air cyclers whirring as they struggled to compensate. The rupture in the hull quickly began sucking air from the cabin, and the Guardsmen's heads drooped as oxygen deprivation began to take hold.

"**My duty is my fate!**" the Marines boomed back.

A Guardsman shoved his body over the hole in the Thunderhawk's hull, plugging it with his torso. His respect for the Mordians rising slightly, Thorosis turned to the doomed man.

"What is your fear?"

The still-stoic Mordian hoarsely yelled back, "My fear is to fail!"

"What is your reward?"

"**Salvation is my reward!**" the Guardsmen and Marines shouted in unison.

"What is your craft?"

"**My craft is death!**"

The Thunderhawk shuddered and dropped again, slowly losing speed and altitude as the pilots searched for a crash-site.

The Guardsman's breath began to weaken as the pressure difference caused his ribs to crack.

"What is your pledge?"

"**My pledge is eternal service!**"

Seeing a field, the pilots steered for the open space. The airframe, stressed by centuries of service and pounded by an inter-universal jump, finally gave way as it approached the landing site. Weapons, servitors, Guardsmen, and Marines were thrown around like bowling pins as the craft shuddered and broke under the strain.

With a short _crunch_, the Imperial Hawks Thunderhawk hit the surface of the Fringe World of Agria.

* * *

**Bridge, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

The bridge of the _Armageddon_ lived up to its namesake. Fitfully illuminated by flickering lumens and shrouded in red emergency lighting, the partially-wrecked room had been a battlefield in the war between two different realities. Quickly drifting back to consciousness, Captain Nicodemus tried to mentally re-evaluate the situation. _ Primary objective remains unchanged: ensure fleet training and readiness._

His orders buzzing in his mind, the Marine looked at the nearest tactical display. The sputtering machine painted a bleak picture: the 157th Fleet was scattered across several million kilometers, various damage runes indicating trouble in other ships. The Captain noted the damage aboard the well-built and heavily-shielded battleship, and grimly compared that to the projected damage aboard the fleet's lighter vessels.

_Current objective: ensure survival of important persons in the Armageddon's bridge_. Ignoring cries for help from menials and low-ranking crewmen, the Mentor strode across the deck to the gold-armored bulk of Governor-General Kalj. The hulking former Guardsman had chosen to attend the Fleet's first post-combat Warp jump in full regalia, which had likely saved his life. His armored body lay in a corner, crushing a crewman and weighed down by a heavy console. _Likely minor injuries, but preserve his life at all costs._ The Governor-General was already regaining consciousness as Nicodemus dragged him into the open.

"Security! Medicae to the Governor-General!" Nicodemus bellowed, seeing several naval troopers slowly pull themselves up from the warped deck. As the reawakened men dashed to Kalj, Nicodemus was already striding to the shadowed command throne.

The wizened figure in the ornate chair was weakly struggling; the Captain hesitated for a moment before helping. "Why?" the Admiral asked quietly.

"You're needed," the Marine responded. "No matter your crimes." The Admiral didn't respond, instead looking over the readouts being delivered to his retinas. "Situation critical," the Admiral murmured almost silently. He paused, before barking orders in an adamantium-clad voice:

"Lieutenant! Give repair priority to life support, sensors, shields, and sublight engines, in that order! You! Seal port-side bulkheads A-3 through S-1! Naval security to lower decks immediately, seal all bulkheads leading to unsecured decks and prepare to vent air if necessary!"

The Admiral's voice resembled his old scout sergeant's so closely that Nicodemus unconsciously stiffened, catching himself with a sudden start. _Last VIP on the bridge_- but Lady-Commissar Reinholdt was already on her feet, dashing towards an exit and barking orders into a handheld vox-unit. _That woman should have been a Black Templar…next objective: tend to my men_.

Nicodemus strode from the _Armageddon_'s bridge, stepping past crippled bodies and rushing crewmen as he headed for the massive battleship's main landing bay. "All Mentors, check in," Nicodemus called out over the Legion's command channel. His two lieutenants responded half a minute later, causing the Captain to grimace once again.

_Fifteen missing? Emperor, what a catastrophe!_ Decades of self-control slammed down within the Marine's mind, bringing him back to his mission. _Ensure fleet readiness_! Sighing, Nicodemus brought up the tactical display in his helmet, ignoring his visual display's newly-acquired fuzziness. _Unknown location, unknown threats, unknown capabilities._

"If only I knew what to be ready for…"

* * *

**Crash site**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"Report."

"Two, ready."

"Three, ready."

"Four, ready."

"Squad 1, four casualties." The figure paused. "Squad 2, all casualties. Squad 3…"

Corporal Thorosis of the Imperial Hawks frowned behind his helm. Regular humans were simply too fragile! His headache clearing after the crash, the Marine looked around the field that the now-dead pilots had steered them into.

Scattered clouds blew over a wooded landscape, the trees recognizably from Terran genetic stock. Some form of crop was being grown in the cleared space, with an unfamiliar-looking vehicle parked near a human-sized farmhouse one hundred meters away. The pastoral scene was marred by the sprawling wreck of the downed Thunderhawk, the massive heavy fighter strewn haphazardly across a kilometer of landscape. Surprisingly, however, the main cabin section remained mostly intact, although the same couldn't be said for its occupants.

The remaining Mordian Guardsmen (most of them "walking wounded") busied themselves with caring for the badly injured and securing the crash site, while the Marines stood still. The four members of 1st Fire-team, 3rd Squad, 5th Company, Imperial Hawks Chapter faced an unusual feeling: aimlessness.

Literally built for war, the Marines were never at rest. Even aboard ship, there were maintenance rituals, prayer, and drills to keep them occupied. A Space Marine was too valuable a tool to remain unused, and their leaders kept them constantly busy to keep their minds free from the subtle grip of Chaos.

Thorosis and his team had orders to clear the Tyranid infestation and return to orbit, but something had clearly gone wrong. Their primary mission was completed, and they were unable to return or communicate for further orders. "What now?" Three asked softly.

"Secure the crash site, assist in recovery efforts," the Corporal ordered automatically. As lost as any of his men, the Marine only knew that idleness was a Bad Thing. His thoughts whirled in a spiral of confusion as Thorosis clipped his bolter to mag-locks and turned to the wrecked craft and toiling Mordians.

* * *

**Mid-ship, battleship _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"They're coming!"

Sgt. Mathias, 1st Trieste Guard Regiment, woke up very quickly at that yell. Expecting to see the usual signs of Warp-infestation – walls weeping blood, fellow humans sprouting new eyes and arms – he was almost disappointed to be faced with a blank, gunmetal-gray bulkhead.

"The hell's going on?" he barked. _Everyone's too shaken up; time to break out the Sergeant Voice again._

A panicked naval rating, blue-uniformed and far too pale, shouted hoarsely, "The menials! They're coming!"

Feeling strangely let down by the mundane enemy, Mathias bellowed, "Shut up! All Guardsmen on me! You, blue-belly, show me expected attack routes, communication nodes, and defense points." The frightened Navy man paused. "NOW!"

As the rating pointed out the necessary information with trembling fingers, the Sergeant glanced at the nearby men. He mentally counted off most of his own squads, along with several faces that he didn't recognize. _Good enough_.

"Heads up! We're moving to a comm. node. Shoot anyone without a uniform!"

The Sergeant's men poured through the hatch and into a main corridor, lasguns up and bayonets fixed, while unshod feet pounded one deck below them. With most electrical systems out and confusion rampant, the slaves of the _Armageddon_'s lower decks had seized their opportunity. Most of the lower-decks naval security officers were dead or pinned down, letting the more opportunistic slaves run for higher ground. Some looked to jump a social class by infiltrating the higher decks. Others simply sought revenge.

* * *

**Crash site**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"Contact."

"Identify." Corporal Thorosis had to fight to keep his voice steady as he heard Three's report. A new mission!

"Three hostiles. Armored, large-scale weapons."

"Hold position. Team, assemble and prep for ambush."

The red-armored giants dashed from the Thunderhawk's corpse, performing final weapons rites and whispering quiet prayers. Although quiet and focused on the mission, each one was inwardly exulting. Their previous listlessness was replaced with new purpose: they had a new enemy to kill.

* * *

"Umm…sar? Sar?"

Newly-recruited Sergeant Waters resisted the urge to wince. "Yeah, Private?"

Private Walker, uncomfortable in the CMC armor, shuffled his neosteel-clad feet. "Well, thermals are showing some flutters over on your right. I helped shut down Johnson's reactor two weeks ago, and the house should've been cold as a rock by now." Fred, a local farmer and the third member of Waters's small 'command,' affirmed him quietly.

"Private, remember why the L.T. wanted us to check out this place again?"

"Umm…because of the ship that re-entered atmo and…oh. I mean, sar."

Cole again heroically resisted the urge to wince. "Yeah. Alright, you two, Impalers up, 10-meter spread. Stay frosty, but don't get too trigger-happy. Probably a bunch of civvies in that lander anyway. We'll toss them in with the others, evac them to the Starport and get the hell away." He glanced around the pastoral landscape, which temporarily remained unmarked by the Zerg invasion. _Damn._

* * *

"Report."

"Two, ready. Weapon warm."

"Three, ready."

"Four, ready."

"Pick targets. Aim for headshots." Inwardly, Thorosis weighed his options. He had three armed, armored and un-recognized contacts approaching his crash site. Unlike his more bloodthirsty subordinates, the Corporal had been promoted for his level-headedness. His ammunition stocks, depleted by previous actions, left him unwilling to waste ammunition without extreme need. He paused, trying to decide.

One of the figures slowed, raising a gauntleted hand in the Marine's direction, and training took over.

"Fire."

* * *

Bolters are cumbersome weapons. Their slow travel speed relative to laser-based weapons makes them considerably less effective in hitting moving targets, and changing atmospheric conditions makes pinpoint targeting difficult. Their red-hot rocket motors make them easy to track for anyone with thermal vision, and the massive noise they produce make them audible to anyone within half a mile.

Then again, when one has achieved godlike accuracy with the weapon, the bolter's problems pale before its awesome destructive potential.

Fred was the first to fall, two bolter shells detonating near his head. One hit his shoulder armor and gouged out a divot, while the other penetrated the unlucky Private's visor and detonated. His corpse flopped to bonelessly to the ground.

Two's over-warm plasmagun spat out a tiny stream of superheated matter before the abused triggering mechanism fused shut under the heat. The nano-sized, rapidly-decaying blob of plasma hit Private Walker's chest armor, where the neosteel conducted the heat inward. His back arching as instinct pushed him away from the sudden small-scale inferno, Walker's old-model CMC armor shut down automatically under the strain. The mechanic and local eccentric tumbled to the ground, imprisoned in his dysfunctional armor.

Hit in the helmet by Thorosis's bolt round, Sergeant Waters struggled to cope under the sudden attack. His HUD tracked the flight paths of the weapons, which was laughably easy, considering the thermal signature of the superheated plasma. Waters brought up his Impaler rifle, his suit's computer compensating for his shaky aim. Squeezing the trigger, Waters was happy to see a long string of spikes fly from his weapon before a better-aimed bolt hit his visor and turned his head into 'chunky salsa.'

Uncaring of their owner's demise, the spikes from Waters's Impaler traveled the hundred meters separating the two forces, slamming into Space Marine powered armor. Several bolts hit Two's chest-plate, denting it slightly and sticking out of the reinforced ceramite.

Two's luck then hit snake eyes, as the next two bolts flew wide to hit the weak side of Two's left knee-joint. The light armor held for a microsecond before failing, the ceramite-reinforced bone breaking under the impact of the spikes. With his knee shattered into fragments and red-hot lances of pain shooting up his leg, Two silently shifted his weight to compensate. The Terran Marines hit the dirt, either dead or knocked out, while the Imperial Hawks remained still as statues.

"Clear."

"Move."

* * *

_And there you have it – Ch. 3!_

_**The good Captain's job is to test new weapons and strategies…so yes, he's a complete gun nut. Show him a baby and he'll think about giving the Emperor's Peace with his chainsword, but give him a Ryza-pattern double-cell short-barrel plasma pistol and he'll turn into a 10-year-old. :)_

_Sorry for the slow pace, but I have to set up the aftermath of the Event (nice non-melodramatic name there, huh?). I promise more "chargin mah lazers" next chapter!_


	4. First Contact Pt 2

**Crash site**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

"…and they shall have no fear."

Such were the words of the God-Emperor Himself: Space Marines, the Emperor's Finest, had no fear. This was not exactly true.

Fear was an incredibly useful emotion, when properly contained and channeled towards constructive ends. The genetic designers of Space Marines, when making super_human_ creatures, kept the intuition and "sixth sense" that fear provided in a Marine's gene-enhancements. Through diligent training and discipline, many a Marine had saved himself from an ambush by listening to his near-supernatural sense of apprehension.

Four was feeling awfully apprehensive as he approached the downed creatures.

Three armored figures, obviously not Marines and likely not Imperial – Four prayed fervently that his squad hadn't just shredded an Inquisitor and his retinue. Bolter rock-steady and eyes locked on his targets, Four approached the creatures. Perhaps the targets were the heretical Iron Men, returned to make war against humanity once again?

No shells flew, no shouts went up as Four reached the creatures after half an eternity of walking. Seeing the gore around the two other figures, Four slowly reached down to flip the creature downed by Two's plasmabolt.

The creature stirred.

* * *

Walker's first thought on waking was _I still owe Fred 150 credits after last night. Good thing he's dead_.

Nearly blinded by the wake-up drugs his suit was pouring into his system, it took a moment for Walker to realize how crazy his last thought was. It took another moment for him to notice that, much to his surprise, he was still alive.

_Lessee…no spikes, horns, or tentacles. Hey, I haven't even been Zerg-ified yet!_ Opening his eyes, Walker's vision was dominated by a massive blank screen. "Oh, right. Suit, safe mode reboot."

The CMC-300 armor, having shut down earlier to avoid cooking its wearer, slowly rebooted, letting Walker stir as he reflexively clenched his muscles. "Alright, chest armor's crap but internals are good. Lessee-" A recluse by nature, Walker had always annoyed squadmates in the recently-created Agria Militia by muttering with his mike set to open broadcast.

_If anyone's still alive…_Walker thought gloomily, slowly pushing himself over onto his back. His HUD cleared up, revealing a…oh.

* * *

Four quickly stepped back several paces, kicking away a nearby weapon, as the armor began moving. "Surrender, enemy of the Emperor!" he boomed, thinking of Three as he did. His squadmate was always good at melodrama – _focus._

The armor's visor hissed open, revealing a human face. The figure uttered something, arms moving up defensively in front of its head. "HOLD!" Four yelled. The figure stopped moving, the human obviously confused and fearful. The enemy armor's loud-hailers spit out a stream of noise, and Four steeled himself against a Harlequin-style audio assault, before realizing that the 'attack' was some form of language.

Four was unsure. A mere fifty-five years old, Four had only recently graduated into a powered-armor Tactical Squad. He was decades away from receiving his Chapter's peculiar Rite of Acceptance and taking a name once again. "Corporal?" he asked quietly over the vox.

Corporal Thorosis, viewing the situation, was also unsure. _New mission? Find our location…I hope._ "Take the xenos…to the Thunderhawk."

"Sir, it's human."

Thorosis felt a new stab of doubt. "Understood. Orders remain the same."

* * *

When the red giant had started yelling, Walker panicked. He was a mechanic, not a soldier, damnit! The giant made a rumbling noise that sounded a helluva lot like a rockslide; had Walker been a cosmopolitan of the Ultima Segmentum, he would have recognized Macragge-style Low Gothic.

"Say, ummm, sar, what's that weapon there? It kinda looks like one of them SR-8s, but – shutting up now!"

The figure gestured with its free hand, making more rocks-rumbling noises; Walker figured that it probably wanted him to move. "Sure beats sitting here with – oh, _damn_." Fred and the Sarge were down, permanently from the looks of it.

"Look, sar, I dunno who you're workin' with, but we kinda got ourselves a Zerg pr-" A sudden impact to his helmet staggered him slightly. "HEY! My people're gonna be bug bait if they don't get help, you bastards!"

Not seeing any way to communicate without a language in common, Walker slumped his armored shoulders and slumped away from his friends' corpses.

* * *

Four was curious. The Marine kept his weapon fixed firmly on the human's back, but inwardly his mind was whirling. The human sounded agitated, although Four suspected that a funeral dirge might sound 'agitated' in that fast-paced chittering that passed for a language. _He was fearful about something, more than his own survival. Another enemy?_

Any further musings were cut short by a flying target –_XENOS!_; Four tracked and fired automatically. One bolt struck a wing on the organism, and the xenos let out a piercing _screech_, turned, and dove towards the human and the Marine.

The prisoner jumped to the side as Four's weapon snapped up and fired at the creature's head. Bolts from Three and the Corporal slammed into the side of the creature, destroying much of its internal structure. The dying creature spit out a green object as it died – _Tyranid bio-plasma! Move!_

Dodging to the side, Four watched as the green blob hit dirt and…_melted?_ Accustomed to Tyranid bio-plasma and fleshborers, Four was surprised as the green stuff melted the dirt and grass into an unrecognizable goop.

"Sir, target has an acid attack," Four dutifully reported. "Orders?"

Thorosis was still unsure; if he acted to save the local humans, he might spare heretics from their rightful judgment! "Bring the human to me."

* * *

Surprised by the sudden Mutalisk attack, Walker was too confused to protest when the strange Marine kept pointing him towards the woods.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," he muttered sullenly; the shock of the last several minutes was just starting to set in.

Approaching the border of the woods, Walker wasn't surprised to see more red-armored types. They looked human, almost, but that armor definitely wasn't CMC-standard. "Suit, scan 'em."

As his suit's scanners went to work, Walker looked over the one who'd just approached him. The armored giant looked at him through green-colored eyepieces, before turning away. _Weird…_

That funny-looking gun still pointed at his back, Walker continued walking as his suit chimed. _Analysis complete. Armor type: unknown. Armor composition: unknown. Weapon type: unknown. Weapon projectiles appear to be rocket-propelled, armor-piercing. Armor occupant: nonhuman._

"Great," Walker muttered, as the woods cleared and he saw where Johnson's farm should've been. Now, it was a blackened wasteland, with bits and pieces of warped metal scattered across it. _Bastards._

His suit picked that moment to chime in: "Attention. Unarmored humans detected in combat situation. Repeat: unarmored humans de-" Walker killed the alert with a sharp jerk.

"Holy…the hell's going on?" he then asked as he caught sight of the "unarmored humans." Funky-looking uniforms, gold braid and shiny this-and-that – was this an _honor guard_? "What happened here?"

The two red-armored figures ignored him again, instead speaking to the honor guard types in their strange language. Several yells later, and the decorated-looking humans had assembled in blocks of ten, strange-looking weapons held at attention.

"What is _with_ you crazies?" Walker muttered. Shit was getting weirder and weirder here…

* * *

"Move out!" Two ordered, watching as Four led the remaining Mordian Guardsmen away. As the _thump_ of boots faded into the distance, Two allowed himself to relax fractionally. His plasmagun's spirit had ceased to cooperate and his knee was a pulpy mess, so the Corporal had ordered him to guard the prisoner.

The prisoner in question was preoccupied with looking over the remains of the Thunderhawk, talking to himself in his strange language. Two's bolt pistol remained constantly locked on a weak area on the back of the strange armor, but the likely-PDF trooper now ignored it.

Grass rustled behind Two's back. Any normal human, even with CMC armor help, would have missed the signs.

Two was no normal human. He'd already turned on his good leg, firing bolt pistol rounds into the leaping Tyranid at point-blank range. The creature fell over as the bolts bounced through its internals, too close for the bolts to detonate. Several similar creatures – _a Gaunt supspecies, perhaps?_ – approached from the same direction, as Two corrected his aim and fired again.

Three more shots, two more dead xenos. Caught between needing to guard the prisoner and the attacking xenos, Two frantically whispered a wordless prayer and focused on the approaching creatures: more Gaunt-species and several larger bio-forms.

"In His Name!"

* * *

whish-**BLAM! **whish-**BLAM! **whish-**BLAM! **whish-**BLAM! **whish-**BLAM!**

Two's sidearm sang in anger, its spirit spitting rage at the vile xenos assaulting its owner. The Marine dodged slightly as a xenos leapt at his face, the Gaunt species receiving a ceramite-clad fist for its troubles. Bolt pistol rounds detonated inside one of the serpent-creatures, sending the hissing creature to the ground, while the other one arched a clawed limb.

_WHOOSH!_ Gene-enhanced senses allowed Two to – barely – dodge the flying spikes, although one of the organic projectiles lodged in Two's right pauldron like the neosteel spikes in his breastplate.

His near-perfect aim thrown off by his injuries and the incoming fire, the last two rounds from Two's bolt pistol went slightly wide. One round missed entirely, while another detonated the serpent-creature's right limb. ka-_click_ and Two's sickle-clip hit empty.

Although he cocked back his empty pistol to throw at the xenos, Two saw that he was too late to dodge the creature's next atta-

**BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!**

The serpent-creature jerked as fist-sized craters appeared across its body. A lucky round hit its unarmored eye, penetrating and detonating inside its brainpan; the luckless creature slumped, dead, to the ground.

Although busy with two more Gaunt-species, Two's mind was whirling. _The _prisoner_? Armed? __Helping__ me?_

**BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!**

Three more rounds from the unfamiliar weapon struck one of the Gaunt creatures in front of Two, causing the creature to slump to the ground. Two immediately seized the opportunity, striking the other with a mailed fist to send it flopping over.

The Space Marine turned to find the former prisoner facing him, an panel open on the side of unfamiliar armor (_so_ _that's__ where the weapon came from_) and a snub-nosed pistol in his hand. Too far away to strike and his sidearm expended, Two couldn't see any further options. _At least the human let me face him before I die._ Bowing his head slightly, Two began his last Litany of Devotion.

"Where there is uncertainty, I shall bring light.

Where there is doubt, I shall sow faith.

Where there is-"

The human put the gun down.

* * *

"Easy there, big fella. Ain't gonna hurt-"

Private Walker had just started to step away from his sidearm when the red-armored giant moved. The monster, in a blur of movement, had Walker's gun turned on his owner in less than a second.

Walker gulped suddenly. His pistol was linked to his armor, so Walker knew the other guy couldn't kill him with it. _Wouldn't stop him from wringing my neck, though. Punching Zerglings – crazy __bastard!_

Marine and Marine faced each other, the only noise coming from Walker's exhaust vents as his suit struggled to rid itself of excess heat. Walker gazed almost calmly at the black barrel pointed directly at his face: he'd gone through so much crazy in the past few days, what with the Zerg invasion and all, that a strange-armored human pointing Walker's own gun at him seemed almost normal.

"Alright, man, we've got a real bug problem and we could use your help, and I know you can't understand a word of this, but please we've still got people on the ground here and at Lark's Crossing and we could use you and your fancy-dress people and ah hell just shoot me or let me go al-" **BLAM! BLAM!**

A Zergling crumpling behind him, Walker fainted.

* * *

**Battlecruiser _Hyperion_**

**Low orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

Jim Raynor was, by and large, a quiet man. He was not given to sudden outbursts or hysteria, and the crew of the _Hyperion _counted on him to keep his cool in any situation, no matter how crazy.

Therefore, the only reason that no one later commented on his near-pants-shitting yell of "holyJesuswhatthellsthat!" was that the entire bridge crew was busy doing it as well.

"-multiple hostiles spotted, size uncertain but off the char-"

"-don't care, get all Swords in the tubes two days ago, you h-"

"-to full combat status, get all batteries manned-"

"-n't do that sir, we're still charging after the last j-"

Quieting again, Raynor glanced around the suddenly-crazed bridge with a guilty look. _Oops_. Around him, the crew of the _Hyperion's _Combat Information Center (CIC) continued to ready the massive

Battlecruiser for fight or flight, everyone too distracted to notice. _Right, then – CIC and Matt will have options ready, so it's time to decide._

"Matt, status."

Matt Horner, captain of the Hyperion and second-in-command of Raynor's Raiders, stayed as calm as ever. "Unidentified fleet, sir. Scans are picking up ten different kinds of crazy from them at every ping, and visual isn't much better. The fleet's apparently drifting and scattered, but they're definitely not normal ships of any group we know. Whoever built them, though, had plenty of resources to throw around."

"Resources?"

"Sir, the smallest ship over there is over a klick from stem to stern. There's also one monster over there that looks to be over five kilometers long."

Raynor whistled appreciatively. His own _Hyperion _was just over one klick long, and was among the largest capital ships ever produced by Terrans._ I wonder what's in the water over there to make __them build so much?_

"Alright, let's see it."

Following some quick fiddling with the CIC's main holographic projector, the table-sized machine showed something that looked like a flying cathedral. "These people have a pretty impressive gargoyle fetish," Raynor observed dryly. Inwardly, he was worried. Whoever these people were, they weren't screwing around.

"Alright, sir, they're not ours or anyone we know, but they look to be humans."

Raynor simply grunted, letting Horner continue. "The eagle on the monster ship, the gargoyles and spikes – those people do love their spikes, by the way – all likely come from a human culture."

A repeating broadcast from the planet interrupted them: "…any ship receiving this transmission…the Zerg are invading Agria. The Dominion-"

"Damnit! They're still down there!" Raynor's fists clenched as he considered his options. "Alright, here's the plan. Launch the Swords, have 'em cloak and scout towards the new fleet. Matt, take us close enough to launch droppers, but keep the ship at alert and ready to run once the other fleet wakes up."

Horner nodded. "What should we do if we're attacked, sir?"

"Get the Hyperion out of here. We can run if they're busy chasing you, so don't worry about anyone dirtside. Oh, and Matt?"

"Yes, sir?"

Raynor glanced at the 5-kilometer-long ship again. "Try to stay on their good side."

"Understood."

* * *

**Flight deck, _Hyperion_**

**Low orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

"Well, this should be different."

"Launching!"

Physics had its wicked way with 1st Lieutenant Imai, G-forces shoving her deep into her grav-seat as her Wraith fighter was flung from the Hyperion's flank. Behind her, Sword 2 was already loaded in the same flight tube, with 3 and 4 behind him.

Imai turned and burned, her nimble craft 'going hot' to re-orient along the planned departure path. At several million kilometers and heat-hidden by the local star, the Lieutenant wasn't too worried about being detected by the new fleet – whoever they were, anyway. The reports from the CIC were sketchy, and some of the knuckle-draggers were saying the fleet was Protoss, another calling them Dominion, and their resident conspiracy theorist calling them the Naga-whatsits who made those strange things that Raynor kept getting paid for.

_Mmmm…the mushroom diet again. Kept in the dark, fed on shit_. A former Dominion Wraith jockey, Lt Imai had grown used to the camaraderie and intel-sharing in Raynor's Raiders. _C'mon, mission-__focus. This is gonna be hairy enough already._

"Swords, check in."

As the eight members of Sword Flight answered over the radio and sent telemetry data to Imai and the CIC, the Lieutenant got her first look at the fleet they were supposed to be shadowing.

"Holy…"


	5. First Contact Pt 3

_Mephisteron: Yes, according to 40k-canon bolter rounds are uranium-tipped. Problem is, according to SC-canon Marine gauss rounds are .50-cal depleted uranium shells, and Hydras can apparently take a helluva lot of shells on their magic-whatsit armor before it buckles (running on .com/watch?v=oqqEh-rWy_s for evidence). Therefore, if I'm taking both universes as mostly canon, I have to assume that bolter shells won't penetrate Hydra front armor. Of course, considering a Space Marine's godlike aim, explodey bolt goodness in the right spot means kaboom Hydra!_

_SirLagginton: Definitely. SC ships are outmatched in size, shields, armor, and firepower. However, their electronics gear is probably light-years ahead of 40k-stuff. Remember that if you make a computer (sorry, 'logic engine') powerful enough, BWAH SCARY DAEMON ATTACK! Since Starcraft-universe doesn't have the same restrictions, and since they depend mostly on conventional means to fight their wars, they're probably much more advanced in specific cases like with EW gear._

_Btw, thanks for the help! I really appreciate hearing about 40k-stuff like that._

_ArchonOfDarkness: Heh, Terran Marine against Space Marine? Pish. One's a convict in a fancy suit, the other one's a gene-enhanced warrior-monk with a couple centuries of asskicking under his belt. Don't worry, 40k Marines have a bit (read: a lot) of an edge. Two's actions in the last chapter will give him the Marine equivalent of navel-gazing later._

_ArcherReborn2: Thanks! Even though I may screw with things to make a decent story, I do value people's opinions, especially if they can back them up. I mean, if I think my story's great and everyone else thinks it's a turd sandwich, then I've got a problem. :D_

_Author's note: In the course of making a decent story, I'm going to stomp on people's favorite stuff by accident. Weapons, people, etc – you like it, and I'm showing it bad. I have a couple things to say on that: 1) Sorry! and 2) find some proof, and the almighty Retcon will make everything right. :D_

* * *

**Bridge, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"Contact! Unknown ship, bearing 245 deg-"

The _Armageddon_'s well-drilled bridge quickly exploded into noise and movement, naval ratings calling for updates while low-ranking officers tried to arrange the fleet into a semblance of order. Naval security remained absent, busy with the riots in the lower decks, while Techpriests frantically worked to kitbash damaged logic engines.

A stranger would have seen chaos. Gazing out from his shadowed throne, the Admiral saw order: here a menial manhandled a dead console into a corner, there a holographic display sparked to life. Although hardly fully combat-ready, the _Armageddon_'s bridge was functional enough to command the ship, if not the fleet. _They've gotten the bridge under control. Time to secure the fleet's perimeter._

"Full-power scan, 10 million-kilometer spread. Get me Psyker Tactica."

Building-sized scanner arrays blossomed to life, one exploding in a silent pyrotechnics display as a leaking plasma conduit ruptured. The remaining arrays spit out a massive pulse in all available spectra, and a mélange of X-rays, UV light, infrared, and more esoteric radiation shot out in all directions.

* * *

"SHIT!" Lieutenant Imai cursed as a wave of energy smacked her Wraith, buffeting the single-seat fighter like a cork in the ocean. Her head ringing from the pulse, Imai checked her instruments.

_And that was a scan. Those people are fucking nuts._ "Swords, report in."

As the nervous updates trickled back, Imai checked her instruments. The telemetry data on her HUD let her know that all eight Sword fighters were fine, but with thousands of kilometers separating them, the periodic check-ins were the best 'group hug' that she could manage.

Imai momentarily considered a "tactical withdrawal" – every Wraith pilot's favorite tactic, along with "Gemini missile tag" – but ultimately rejected it. "Alright, people, we need to keep the crazies busy. Cloak and spread, five-k minimum spacing. Remember, we're not trying to start a war here. We just need to keep them busy until Raynor's done on the surface."

Engines momentarily flaring, the eight Wraith fighters of Sword Flight split away, fading from visual sight as their cloak fields spun up. Shielded from solar radiation by the planet's magnetosphere and cooled until their exteriors were almost as cold as the vacuum outside, each Wraith was now "black-on-black" and nearly impossible to spot with conventional sensors.

* * *

The shrouded figure on the _Armageddon_'s bridge lowered his head, leaning on his eagle-studded staff for support. Thin frame shaking, the figure suddenly stood and faced the shadowed Admiral. Even though the psyker's ridiculously-long cowl reached far over his eyes, the wizened human saw the Admiral clearly.

"We see eight stars in the farm's sky, ready to cut yet withholding the blow…target bearing 242, 13."

Well versed in psyker-babble, the Admiral drew the key words from Erik's speech. _"We" – all of the Tactica saw this. "Stars" – ships, likely strike-craft. Farm, cut – not important for now._ "Portside Lance 1, one quarter-power shot along named bearings. Ready flight decks for launch."

The mostly-automated lance batteries onboard the Apocalypse-class battleship had been devastated by the strange machine-spirit plague, which had rendered the fleet combat ineffective. However, a particularly meticulous Techpriest leading the maintenance of Portside Lance 1 had kept his charge in near-pristine condition, and the mighty weapon stayed functional despite the universe change. Its red-robed guardian had been crushed by debris during the Event, but the gargantuan machine turned and fired as smoothly as the first day it had been used.

Projectors fired beams of light into heavily-reinforced mirrors, which focused the radiation into a single coherent beam. Containment fields held the light back for a microsecond before deliberately failing, the wave of energy shooting out from the lance at the speed of light.

The lance-shot sped along bearing 242, missing Sword Four by a mere two hundred kilometers. As the literally scared-shitless pilot broke stealth and fired his main engine, the Admiral narrowed his eyes at the dot that had suddenly appeared on his tactical display. _Apparently, our enemy has stealth capabilities. Perhaps they've had an alliance with the damned Eldar?_

* * *

Imai cursed yet again as the _big freaking ship_ fired, the laser-like weapon getting uncomfortably close to Sword Four. The Lieutenant was already yelling at Four as he broke stealth: "Damnit, Tim, stay in formation! Get – ah hell, too late. Alright, Four, you're compromised. Go quiet and contain it."

Another beam from one of the 3-kilometer ships punctuated her point, shooting by Four's position at lightspeed. The spotted Wraith turned and burned, launching on a parabolic course that would eventually lead it to the _Hyperion_.

Lt. Imai sighed, looking at her tac display again. Her Gemini missiles against those monsters? _I should probably hop out and throw pebbles at 'em, they might do more damage_.

* * *

**Mid-ship, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

By most people's standards, Sergeant Mathias was not having a good day. After being drop-kicked through the Warp, stranded on a nearly-crippled battleship, and ordered to fight crazed slaves, one would expect the good Sergeant to be somewhat unhappy at his current situation.

"No Tyranids!" the Sergeant sang as he ran through the _Armageddon_'s passageways.

"**NO DAMNED TYRANIDS!**" his men echoed, several of them literally skipping behind Mathias.

The squad approached a key passageway that a naval rating had pointed out to Mathias earlier. The Sergeant slowed, hearing a revving chainsword nearby. "Just like dealing with Gaunts, men. Good fire discipline, don't let them close the gap."

His men grunted in wordless assent, many muttering last-minute prayers. 3rd Squad, 2nd Company, 1st Trieste Regiment rounded the corner to see the _Bitch_ at work in front of them.

….

Lady-Commissar Reinholdt was in her element. The heavyset woman much preferred to face over one hundred slaves with a chainsword and an empty laspistol instead of continuing her usual work in Imperial politics. A slave fell on her right, clutching a pistol-whipped head, while the bisected halves of another slave flopped apart as the Commissar swept her chainsword at chest-height.

"Cowards! Face the Emperor's wrath!" Ducking to avoid a swinging crowbar, the Commissar answered with another sweep of her chainsword. The slave ducked back, catching the chainsword's whirring teeth with his improvised weapon. Reinholdt grimaced and swept her pistol to her right, smacking another slave trying to blindside her.

A chunk of rockcrete flew at the Lady-Commissar's head, opening a gash over her left eye. She barely managed to avoid the swinging crowbar, the orange-suited slave pressing his assault. Reinholdt cleared her nearby space with a chest-high sword sweep, disemboweling two more slaves as they inched closer. The Lady-Commissar snarled as more slaves threw themselves at her. Stepping back yet again, Reinholdt winced at the traitorous thoughts of retreat dancing in her mind.

…

_Shit shit shit why her?_ Sgt. Mathias groaned inwardly as his men spilled out behind him. He couldn't make a firing line to kill the slaves with the _Bitch_ in his men's sights; that would just be begging for an "oops sorry ma'am" moment. The Lady-Commissar's odds of surviving were low as it stood, but they were about nil if Mathias ordered his men to fire without hitting her 'by accident.'

"Close and engage!" Sergeant Mathias ordered, his men answering with war-cries. Bayonets fixed and knives drawn, the Guard veterans threw themselves at the rebelling lower-deck slaves.

* * *

**Lark's Crossing**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"Buh…"

Had they not been wearing CMC armor, Captain Robertson would have leaned over to close his subordinate's slack-jawed mouth.

"Weapons up and check that IFF, people! Don't shoot 'till I tell you to!" Inwardly, Robertson was _very_ nervous. Strange, funny-armored…humans?, showing up, right as the Zerg were prepping for another attack? Along with the unarmored and crazy-dressed ones behind? He'd seen the Zerg pull some pretty scary tricks before, and only the ridiculous getup kept him holding fire. Even the Zerg didn't dress up their infiltrators _that_ crazy.

The three red-armored figures paused, weapons not quite pointed at the Agrian Militia forces. "Cover me," Robertson ordered, before jogging forward. His armored boots digging holes in the wet ground, the Captain met the unfamiliar creature face-to-face.

"Howdy. I don't know who y'all are, but I could sure use some help here."

The red-armored creature responded with a rumbling noise: _is he speaking? Sounds awful slow…_

"Hey, I can't quite understand y-" whish-**BLAM!** whish-**BLAM!** whish-**BLAM!**

* * *

Corporal Thorosis of the Imperial Hawks wasn't sure of what to expect. The strange humans, who apparently belonged to neither the Imperium nor Chaos, had been broadcasting some type of transmission from this location.

The Marine was unsure of how to proceed; his previous training in the concept of 'diplomacy' had largely been "let the officers handle it." However, the Corporal reasoned that the local humans appeared to be free of Warp-symbols or Tau technology, and that Tyranids were worse than any human except a traitor.

Weapons ready and Mordian Guardsmen following, the three remaining Imperial Hawks cautiously approached the broadcast station. Rockcrete structures and unfamiliar adamantium-clad buildings loomed out of the fog as they approached, autosenses showing many humans in the clearing.

The Imperials slowed, weapons ready but not aimed. "Remain vigilant," Thorosis ordered unnecessarily. Quelling his own insecurities, the Marine stepped forward to face an approaching human, this one also armored in the unfamiliar gear that the previous humans had worn.

The strange human uttered some incomprehensible fast-paced gibberish; the Corporal frowned, unsure of how to proceed. Before he could answer, sudden movement at the edge of the clearing drew his gaze, and the suddenly-elated Space Marine quickly opened fire on the approaching xenos. _New targets!_

* * *

Captain Robertson, despite being out of position during the sudden Zerg attack, had planned well for the defense of Lark's Crossing. Therefore, when the wave of Zerglings reached the chain link fence on the town's north entrance, emplaced auto-turrets opened up on the dog-like creatures. The turrets, assigned overlapping fields of fire and constantly supplied by the town's still-functioning fabricators, quickly chewed through the oncoming wave with little trouble.

Of course, the explosive armor-piercing bolts and laser beams didn't hurt either.

Robertson watched, dumbfounded, as the crazies with the gold braid formed up in ten-man blocks. _Hell, us Terrans haven't been fighting like this since Earth! Who are these people?_

The transport's revving engine drew the Captain out of his reverie. _Damn, it's go-time_. "Alright, Alpha, you're up!" The four would-be Marines acknowledged over the radio, moving to guard the transport. The former harvesting machine had been given a quick "guns'n'armor" upgrade, which turned it from "deathtrap on wheels" to merely "completely suicidal."

Heads bowed in prayer, the thirty colonists of the first wave waited to board. Jeffries, the local priest, offered a prayer for the group. Robertson spotted people waiting for a blessing that he knew were Buddhists, Jews, atheists – _small potatoes at this point_. He hated to give the bad news, but the Captain knew that responsibility came along with the shiny suit. _Even if it's obsolete._ "First wave, get yer asses in! We'll see y'all on the other side!"

* * *

Calling the Imperials "thunderstruck" by the revelations of Lark's Crossing would have been a massive understatement. Corporal Thorosis had seen backwoods farmers using and _understanding_ advanced technology, without proper supplications or prayers! He hadn't even seen a single votive candle or Omnisssiah shrine yet!

Worse still, these farmers held _new_ technology. A veteran of literally too many hive campaigns to count, the Marine could date most structures to the decade with a cursory scan of the wear-and-tear and of the building's surroundings. These structures had barely started to degrade; they'd been standing for less than a single decade.

The farmers' strange powered armor was similarly fresh. By comparison, Three's armor was the newest of Thorosis's squad, and his was over a century old. The farmers' suits had seen some wear and tear, and were definitely newly-issued, but were still impressively new.

His head spinning, the Corporal searched for familiar ground. Seeing a low rumble from yet another strange groundcar, Thorosis watched as a huddled group of civilians clustered around a…_priest_?

...

Father Jeffries, priest of Lark's Crossing, watched in disbelief as the head newcomer strode over to him. The already-short man felt like a complete midget next to the red-armored monster, who moved far too smoothly for a normal man in CMC armor – _perhaps a UED limited-issue, maybe a Kel-Morian prototype?_

"May I help you, my son?" Jeffries asked. Although he seemed apprehensive, internally the priest was relaxing into his pre-combat calm. _Protect the asset, no matter what. __Reach inside grip, get close enough that friendly-fire protocols limit his movement, use-_

Faster than Jeffries's eyes could track, the monster reached down, armored fingers grasping the priest's crucifix with surprising dexterity.

...

"Not Chaos. Good." Already fearing trouble after witnessing the techno-heresy surrounding him, and desperately searching for a return to normalcy, Corporal Thorosis felt much more reassured after seeing the priest's holy symbol. _Some primitive religion – as long as the Ruinous Powers haven't taken them, they can be turned to the Emperor's Light._

Left without purpose after completing his mission on Trieste, the Marine made up his mind. "Squad, new primary objective. Keep the humans alive." The primitives wouldn't be able to govern themselves without proper Imperial justice, so his Hawks would keep them safe long enough for the Imperium to arrive and save the barbarians from anarchy.

As Four communicated the new objectives with the Mordian Guardsmen, the Corporal strode around the groundcar that the local humans would be transported in. _It will do._

* * *

Four militiamen and three Space Marines walking alongside, the first convoy from Lark's Crossing left its base. Twenty Mordian Guardsmen marched behind in formation, lasguns held at the ready, while the colonists inside the repurposed vehicle huddled together for safety.

Captain Robertson watched the strange newcomers leave, shaking his head as they departed. "You know, I really thought I'd seen it all. Shee-yit."

"…this is Marshal Jim Raynor, to anyone left planetside on Agria. We're inbound with heavies to pick y'all up. We've got people on the ground already, so give us coordinates and we'll steer 'em to you."

Robertson shook his head again before triggering the long-range comm. "Jim Raynor, you crazy bastard. This is Lark's Crossing, and we gotta thank you for your people down here. I don't know why you sent down twenty men with gold braid and no armor, but you're helpin' us all the same."

Static from Raynor's comm. "…wait, say again?"

* * *

**Unknown location**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

The room was still pitch-black to a regular human. To those with the proper blessings or genetic background, it either shone in noospheric light or was bathed in showers of gold.

The shrouded figure, standing rigidly before the Presence, noticed none of this.

**You still live. Intriguing.**

"Once he takes stock of the disaster, my life is forfeit."

**Indeed, young one. Sell it dearly.**

"Indeed. I shall do my duty."

**Very well. I will aid you if I can, but the Project must take priority.**

"Understood." They were both professionals, after all; duty came first.


	6. Of The Violent Kind

_Archon of Darkness: Ah heh-heh-heh-heh..._

_Yeah, the Dominion and their toys will show up eventually (yay splodey time!). Ultimately, though, 40k tech has a big firepower and armor advantage over Koprulu Sector Terrans - but don't count them out just cuz they have less dakka. You'll see a basic example of what I mean this chapter. And please stay around to review, because most ppl who've reviewed or PMed have been 40k fanboys (like me!), and I could use a Starcraft advocate!_

_Genaric name: Thanks! __I've been using Lexicanum so far but I'll try the 40k wikia as well. I'm assuming that regular Space Marines on a fairly regular mission, though, will be using vanilla bolter rounds. Also, don't forget the small-but-important effects that a universe shift will have on basic weapons and gear._

_hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh: Your review is Awesome with a capital A. That comment on Marines makes perfect sense considering what they do, and I'll be using that when the Ultralisks show up..._

_Also, good idea and thanks for the advice on battlecruisers! Read below and tell me what you think about the (mostly non-existent) space combat in this chapter, please! ;)_

_Cstan: Fair...nah! Ultimately, a Ghost or Spectre would measure as a Delta-level psyker or higher in the 40k-'verse, and you'll see the effects of the SC-'verse on the Imperium's psykers fairly soon._

_Terran industry, more than Terran firepower, will save their asses - in fact, it's the only thing that ever has._

* * *

The Cerebrate's name was Yreth, and it liked poker.

A veteran of Terran infiltration, it had successfully sent controlled Terrans into many settlements, seeding long-term agents to prepare for the Queen's invasion. It learned to tell Terrans apart, could understand human logic, and knew Dominion weapons inside and out.

It had also learned the human's games. From that point on, Yreth was a changed Cerebrate. Seeing the unit-loss outside Lark's Crossing, the alien's first thought was "he's upped the ante."

Yreth decided to call the human's bid. Willing a group of infestors to new action, the Cerebrate sent the hulking monsters towards the tiny human settlement and the convoys fleeing from it. The infestors, along with their deadly cargos, would definitely force the other side to fold. In fact, if he snatched them quickly enough, he'd have a better hand for the next game over at Planetfall Point! Rubbing his non-existent hands in anticipation, Yreth was almost giddy at the thought.

* * *

**Crash site**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

Two Marines sat uneasily next to the broken remains of a Thunderhawk. Private Walker, after convincing his hindbrain that he wasn't going to die just now, was settling down into his usual routine – fixing things and making small talk. Although Red (as the Agrian had taken to calling the 'man') had waved him away from the crashed ship, Walker had found plenty of broken machines around him to keep himself busy.

Two, by contrast, remained rock-still in meditation. No stranger to calming his thoughts through prayer, the Marine found himself troubled by the events of the day. His squad losing their bearings, the attack, his injury, and the human's surprising act of mercy were all whirling through the Imperial Hawk's mind. Foremost, however, were his own actions: _why did I wait? My __duty_ _was to attack, no matter whether the cause was hopeless. I saw a weapon, and I flinched!_

More chatter from the human drew Two's attention. The prisoner seemed to be pointing at Two's plasmagun, whose spirit was angered and had refused to fire properly that day. _If my weapon's spirit had cooperated, that man would already have been judged by the Emperor_, the Imperial Hawk thought sourly.

* * *

"Hmmm…simple, but pretty damn effective." No stranger to the "if it works" philosophy and a proud improviser, Walker was impressed by the deliberate simplicity of Red's weapon. His suit didn't have much of a scanner suite, but Walker had come prepared.

His time as a Confederate SCV pilot had eventually gotten him a full set of large-scale tools. Reaching slowly towards his side-pack, Walker pulled out his 'pocket' scanner, the basketball-sized device fitting snugly in his armor's hand.

Slowly running the scanner over the strange weapon, Walker ignored Red's pistol, which was fixed on his head again. The device was unfamiliar, but the mechanic quickly grasped the idea: _battery pack feeds the copper coil, coil turns this whatsit-goop into plasma, nozzle at this end directs plasma towards target_.

Experienced with the now-defunct Confederate Alpha Squadron plasma weapons, Walker appreciated the simple design of the gun, even as he shuddered while handling it. _If this thing had worked right, I'd be a crispy critter right now_, he thought, his off-hand unconsciously dropping to his armor's chestplate. CMC armor was designed to resist the kinetic force and corrosive acid of Zerg bio-forms instead of extreme heat, and the Private knew it was a miracle that he'd survived at all.

_A miracle, maybe…or a screw-up._ Looking at the plasmagun's nozzle, Walker saw his salvation: the opening had fused shut. Withdrawing a welding torch, the Private quickly set up the objects in his suit's computer. Relaxing and letting the armor's arms move independently, Walker watched as his suit lined up the welder and the plasmagun's nozzle with a precision he could never hope to match.

* * *

Relaxing slightly to allow his body to begin healing itself, Two was an eighth of a second slow in reacting. Silently cursing his inattention, the Marine watched wordlessly as the strange human reached for the Imperial Hawk's plasmagun.

The Marine remained passive as the prisoner examined the plasmagun. The weapon was useless without its battery pack, and although Two feared profaning the mighty weapon's machine spirit, he hesitated calling the prisoner off.

As the human lined up a glowing tool with the plasmagun, Two raised his bolt pistol to execute the prisoner. Heresy such as this would not stand! As he prepared to fire, however, something held him back. Well-versed in mental defenses, the Marine nevertheless felt his powerful psychic walls swept aside by an invading Presence.

**No, youngling. Let the wanderer help you.**

Silently struggling against an unseen foe, the Marine was helpless to interfere as the human began cutting into Two's plasmagun with near-micrometric precision.

* * *

Ignoring his erstwhile companion's strange actions, Private Walker focused intently on the plasmagun in his armor's hands. "Come on, baby…" he whispered as the plasma-cutter in his suit's hands approached the fused-shut gun muzzle. He'd already plotted out the cutter's position using his suit's 3D sensors, so at this point all he could do was relax and pray.

Slowing as it reached the plasmagun muzzle, the cutter began to fractionally burn through the boiled-together metal. Across from Walker, Red seemed to be going into a fit, pistol swaying as he rocked from side to side.

Utterly focused in his work, Private Walker noticed none of this. Every bit of his mind was concentrated on the sizzling plasma cutter, which had almost finished its delicate work. With a muted _ping!_, the cutter finished slicing the plasmagun's nozzle, the muzzle blocks retracting back into the weapon and leaving the gun's short barrel clear.

"Here you go, buddy," Walker remarked, handing the newly-repaired gun back to its owner. "It'll need another good fix eventually, but that should hold you for a bit."

* * *

Calling Two stunned would have been the understatement of the millennium. Strange new Tyranid bio-forms, farmers with advanced Dark Age technology, and inexplicable Warp jumps were mere sidelines this day.

Two had seen a prisoner arm himself, only to use his weapon to kill Tyranids, before surrendering it to the Marine and passing up the chance to kill another enemy. This prisoner had committed sacrilege against Two's sacred weapon, which had apparently _fixed_ it!

Released from the psychic hold that had gripped him, Two grabbed his mighty plasmagun and shoved a battery into the weapon's pistol grip. The fresh battery quickly charged the liquid inside into a volatile plasma, the nozzle holding under the strain.

Pointing his weapon away from the camp and muttering the Litany of Accuracy, Two pulled the trigger. The nozzle opened on cue, allowing a large glob of plasma to exit the gun and travel fifty yards downrange, where it struck a tree and created a colorful pyrotechnics display. The prisoner yelped, bringing his massive armored hands up to shield his face.

Two was, again, at a loss for words. _What __is__ this place?_

* * *

**Sword 1**

**Low orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

Lt. Imai cursed as telemetry data from the faraway _Hyperion_ showed 60-meter targets detaching from the unknown fleet. "Zulu, zulu, zulu! Hold stealth, launch your jammers, wait for them and for God's sake _hold your damn fire_!"

…

The ten Fury Interceptors streaked from the _Armageddon's_ left flight bay, the massive fighters arcing as they formed up into an orderly formation. Aleph Squadron carried themselves as fitting the fleet's best, and each three-man crew vied to prove themselves over the others. They'd faced Chaos, they'd beaten Tyranids, and no invisible flea-fighters would stop them! Why, according to the battleship's scanners, the silly things were less than ten meters long!

When the massive fighters were within extreme Gemini missile range, Sword Flight's jammers began broadcasting. Each jammer, little more than an oversized broadcast unit fixed to a single-burn rocket, sent out sensor ghosts to spooch enemy trackers. Each Wraith of Sword Flight was habitually loaded with six of the drones, making forty-two jammers active in the space between Aleph and Sword.

Electronic counter-measures (ECM) was the cornerstone of Terran-Terran combat in the Koprulu Sector. Lacking both the Protoss's shields and psychic talents or the Zerg's numbers and ferocity, the Terrans used tricks and outright bastardry to beat each other. Expecting their opponents to ignore the drones in favor of burning through the jamming, Sword Flight was stunned as the massive enemy fighters broke formation.

…

The thirty members of Aleph Squadron were shocked. Each navigator's display had lit up in a colorful display of confusion, each gunner's targeting screen turning from blank to pea-soup in an instant. The squadron's members had fought the ECM-less Tyranids for their entire lives, and had never seen artificial sensor ghosts before. Only one navigator in the squadron had dueled with the agile Eldar before, and he immediately cut into the pilot's channel to advise the others.

He was too late. Aleph Squadron's aggressiveness worked against them, as each pilot burned to chase the nearest sensor ghost. Combat servitors, unable to distinguish true targets from fake ones, misread targets or went into mindlock from the strain. "Formation! FORMATION, damn you!" Aleph 1 yelled. His shouts eventually reached the wayward Furies, but by then the formation had been ripped to shreds.

…

"The hell is _up_ with these people?" Matt Horner asked rhetorically, secure aboard the _Hyperion's_ bridge.

"Sir, their ECM is shit," came the reply from Sword Lead. Horner frowned; Imai, as usual, was being enlightening and also no help whatsoever. How could these people spot a _cloaked_ Wraith several million klicks away and then get spooched by fighter-level jamming? He hadn't even spun up the _Hyperion_'s countermeasures yet!

"Orders remain the same. Keep them busy chasing ghosts while we help the colonists," Horner ordered. Even as the Lieutenant responded, the Captain began pacing. _Six steps forward, turn, six steps back. Six steps forward…_ Raynor and the CIC's crew might make fun of his strange habits, but Horner found them useful when trying to collect his thoughts.

Stopping mid-stride, the Captain turned and faced the holographic display of the strange fleet.

_Who – what – are you?_

* * *

**Bridge, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"Captain, what is happening out there?" The question was innocent, but the Admiral's tone was not. Captain Maroun, the _Armaggeddon_'s Strikecraft Leader, knew that the Admiral _would_ somehow find a way to keelhaul him if Aleph Squadron's antics kept up.

"Sir, our tactical display is served by holier logic engines than the humble spirits of Fury strikecraft. Our sensor picture is much clearer than theirs."

The shrouded Admiral glanced at the display. The once-orderly fighter group had become snarled in a massive tangle of sensor ghosts and attacking fighters, the Furies chasing shadows. _I should've ordered Gamma out_, the Admiral thought ruefully. Aleph Squadron's reputation as the _Armageddon_'s hotshots was battle-proven, but Gamma was less likely to spook and chase a sensor contact as soon as it appeared.

"Very well. Recall Aleph Squadron to standby and ready an attack pattern alpha" – a full launch of every combat-ready strikecraft aboard the _Armageddon_. "Comms, have Escort One move to engage the enemy ship." On the display, the five Cobra destroyers of Escort One turned and fired their main drives, sending them arcing towards the nearby planet.

Beads of sweat rolling freely down his face, Captain Maroun weakly responded, "Sir, Aleph is beyond standard vox range, and has no astropath due to current difficulties." Maroun vainly tried to not think about Aleph Squadron's former astropath, _Rajko slamming his head into the bulkhead again and again and again-_

"Frak!" Slamming his withered fist on the arm of his command throne, the Admiral considered his options. "Recall Aleph by vox somehow, and deal with whatever delays result. I want the escorts to have full support when they reach weapons range, understood?" A pause. "Security, get me that damn Marine Captain. I want Nicodemus's pet psykers out mind-scrying that ship."

Captain Maroun could only nod silently as the destroyers left the fleet's shattered perimeter and burned onwards towards the unknown ship.

* * *

**Convoy**

**Near Lark's Crossing, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

The first Zerglings bounded towards the Agrian convoy. Armed with little more than claws and basic instinct, the dog-like creatures were easily ordered into action by a nearby Overlord.

The Zerglings were armored to resist spikes from Terran weapons, which provided limited protection against Marine spikes and bolter shells. Armor-piercing spikes became stuck in rock-hard chitin, while bolter shells hobbled Zerglings with red-hot metal fragments, turning others into bloody chunks. Although badly bloodied, the advance continued.

At exactly 100 meters, the twenty Mordian Guardsmen opened fire. At that range, the Agrian-strain Zerglings discovered an unfortunate truth – namely, that they had almost no resistance to extreme heat. The much-derided "flashlights" of the Imperial Guard proved their worth against the dog-like creatures, as the 500-degree lasbolts boiled brain and muscle to topple otherwise unharmed Zerglings.

Bolters sang and Impalers roared, lasguns _crack_ed and by fifty meters every Zergling lay dead or crippled, a rapidly-diminishing carpet of brown chitin serving as a rough 'arrow' towards the human convoy.

"Form up," Thorosis ordered, the other Imperials immediately complying. The four militiamen were still gawking at the slaughter, and the Corporal sneered silently at their inattention, his old Chaplain's lectures on non-Imperials immediately coming to mind. Truly, these primitives needed proper Imperial discipline!

* * *

Yreth wished for a mouth to frown with. At an offhand impulse from the Cerebrate, an infested Terran stopped its shuffling advance and frowned in the general direction of Lark's Crossing.

'Itch' scratched, the Cerebrate once again turned its attention to destroying the remaining Terrans on Agria. Assuming that the Terrans would rely on their standard kinetic weapons, Yreth had grown its local Zerg forms without any restrictive thermal-resisting chitin layers. _A new player, with several wild cards_, the Cerebrate idly thought to itself. Altering the still-growing Zerg strains to include better heat resistance, the Zerg form pondered its current hand and the card that it would play next.


	7. Convoy

_SirLagginton: Wait and see, wait and see...:D_

_Mabra46268: I'd love to respond, but your PMs are disabled. Sorry!_

* * *

**Convoy**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

Stella Waters was a good girl. Mommy had always told her that she should be respectful of her elders, and although Stella didn't know who the "respectful" or the "elders" were, she knew that Mommy wanted her to be nice to people.

The strange people with the shiny things were probably respectfuls, Stella decided. She felt a little scared, but Stella walked underneath the people standing in the back of the big Three-Oh-Niner, where they normally put the grain, and asked the shiny respectful, "Excuse me, sir, but what's your name?"

The man was really shiny on the inside, and he had a white shirt with red bits on his tummy. He held that shirt really tight when he turned over to look at her and he said something, but it sounded real slow and Stella couldn't get it. He kept holding that shirt, and Stella wasn't sure why he liked to hold the red bits on his shirt so much, but she figured that it was probably because it was all he had from his home.

Stella felt her eyes watering as she thought about _home_, and Mommy and Daddy and big Uncle Richardson in their metal suits. "Don't cry don't cry," she whispered to herself, ashamed at being so bad in front of this respectful.

The man's face softened, and he took his hands away from his shirt, and pulled her over to him. The feeling of being hugged reminded Stella of Mommy and Daddy all over again, and she cried into one of the gold things on his shirt. She could feel him crying, too, and so she figured that crying was OK if one of the respectfuls was doing it too.

* * *

"Status."

"Three: quarter stocks."

"Four: emergency rounds."

Not for the first time, Corporal Thorosis of the Imperial Hawks cursed Two's malfunctioning plasma weapon. _I need a weapon that requires no ammunition_ – but after a fearful glance at the Mordian Guardsmen, the Marine decided that he would simply meet the enemy in melee if his bolt stock ran dry. _Anything_ beat a lasgun!

_No ammunition – so substitute with local stocks_. The Corporal had seen the techno-magic at the human encampment, of groundcar-sized armories that _made_ the bullets that the turrets had shot! The local humans had weapons, certainly, and could make the bullets for those guns. Considering the situation, the Marine made up his mind.

"Squad, acquire locally-produced weapons," the Corporal ordered. His team would likely be forced to swear many oaths of penance for handling such heretical machines, but Thorosis decided that he would willingly undergo such punishments to spare his men and complete his mission.

* * *

**Near Thunderhawk crash site**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

Originally ordered west, Thing was now crawling its way eastward. Had it enough brainpower for emotions or logic, it would have bemoaned the sudden shift in orders, or bitched about the living conditions.

Since Thing was a Zerg infestor, Thing thought none of that. Instead, Thing's attention was captured by the two _new Things_ in front of it. They looked to be dead, but Thing never let a little problem like death get in the way of _new Things_.

With a quick carapace-shuffle, Thing poised itself above the two bloody, CMC-armored corpses on the ground. Extending its main claws forward, Thing grabbed and jabbed with the experience of a consummate professional.

After only a few moments of work, the _new Things_ were safely inside Thing's third stomach. Piping nutrients in to feed the growing _new Things_, Thing resumed its slow advance towards Lark's Crossing.

* * *

Yreth decided that it needed proper shades to hide its plays. The local humans had seen through the Cerebrate's latest bluff, massacring the diversionary Zergling rush to the convoy's left while shredding the Hydralisk-stuffed Overlords assaulting from over the treetops. The humans' strange exploding shells were death incarnate to the slow air carriers, the red-hot fragments bursting air sacs and sending the Overlords to a pointy death as they were speared by the trees.

Still, the Cerebrate remained unruffled. It might have lost the latest trick, but there hadn't been too many chips in that last pot. Besides, it had several trump cards ready, and Yreth knew that its winning hand hadn't been played yet.

With the slowly-crawling infestors finally in position, Yreth willed the slow beasts into action. In conjunction with ground and air forms, the burrowing monsters would reach the convoy before unleashing their infested Marine cargo. With the reanimated and infested humans causing trouble, Yreth would negate the Terrans' range advantage and let Zerglings reach the convoy unharmed. Pulling newly-hatched Mutalisks from their eggs atop precarious Spires, the Cerebrate sent another air assault to harry the convoy. After all, the other players' wild cards were all together in one trick, and if Yreth could trump their hand, then the Cerebrate would take a very rich pot.

_Your move_, the Cerebrate casually thought at the clustered humans.

**Very well**, a mental voice responded.

* * *

**Convoy**

**Near Lark's Crossing, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

Corporal Thorosis was the happiest that he had been in days. His confusion over the strange Warp jump, the new planet, and the primitive-yet-advanced humans was finally swept away in glorious melee! Space Marines were experienced in ranged combat, but every Marine yearned for the _rush_ of close-quarters fighting, the _skree_ of crossed chainswords offset by the pounding of armored boots and screaming of close-packed men.

The Marine quickly calmed himself, his self-control returning as he remembered his Chaplain's warnings: _such thoughts lead to Chaos!_ Nevertheless, Thorosis found a faint smile on his face as he swung his chainsword down to ground-pound a Zergling. His two remaining battle-brothers fought side-by-side with him, chanting the Litany of Purpose:

"Without the Dark, there can be no Light!"

"_We have purpose!"_

The _crack_s of lasbolts echoed over the Marines' heads as the remaining Mordian Guardsmen fired volleys into the masses of rushing Zerglings. Several Guardsmen had already fallen from Hydralisk spines, the mortally wounded ones quickly bandaged and tossed into the back of the harvester to die.

"Without the Lie, there can be no Truth!"

"_We have purpose!"_

The muted _brakata-brakata-brakata_ of the turret aboard the Model 309 Harvester echoed as the automated weapon swept across the Zerg forms in a simple pattern. Hydralisks twisted and juddered as the fist-sized shells struck them, the volume of fire making up for its inaccuracy.

"Without the War, there can be no Victory!"

"_We have purpose!"_

The four Terran Marines in the convoy turned to face south as ordered by Captain Robertson, who continued to oversee the evacuation from Lark's Crossing. Impalers opening up, the colonists tried to shoot down a flight of Mutalisks rushing towards the harvester.

"Without the Death, there can be no sacrifice!"

"_We have purpose!"_

Although the Impaler bullets sent Mutalisks crashing to the ground, the colonists' panicked fire was unable to kill the entire flight. Two Mutalisks survived to attack the convoy, one firing a glaive wurm at a colonist while the other flyer dove towards the harvester.

"Without the Hope there can be no Future!"

"_We have purpose!"_

The glaive wurm struck the nearest Terran Marine, the colonist too inexperienced to jump aside. His leg shredded by the impact, the armored figure dropped to the ground.

"Without the Loyalty there can be no Chapter!"

"_We have purpose!"_

The other diving Mutalisk hit the harvester directly, crushing the turret welded on top and stopping the machine cold. Rear doors flying open, the panicking colonists spilled out, running for the Starport that was just in sight. A crippled Mordian Guardsmen, one hand holding a red-stained white bandage over his shredded guts, dragged a small girl from the wrecked machine.

"Without the Emperor, there is nothing!"

"_And we would have no purpose!"_

The Litany of Purpose was supposed to be quietly chanted in a chapel, but Corporal Thorosis knew that he and his men needed the reassurance those words provided. His chainsword bisecting another leaping Zergling, the Marine spared a look behind him to see the colonists desperately sprinting for the safety of the Starport.

* * *

Stella Waters could hear yelling and screaming again outside the Three-Oh-Niner. The big gun that crazy old Walker had welded onto the top last week fired with a _brakata-brakata-brakata_, and Stella held on real close to the respectful. She knew that he would probably just call her a big baby like Daddy did, but she was awful scared now. Most people had dark bits on the inside, but this man was really shiny on the outside _and_ on the inside, so Stella trusted him a lot.

There was a big **crunch**, and the Three-Oh-Niner stopped moving. Stella didn't know what she should do, so she held onto the respectful some more. People opened the doors and started and running, but Stella was too scared to move. The shiny man made some noise, but Stella couldn't understand him.

The respectful suddenly took Stella's hand and starting pulling her outside. Stella was afraid of being alone and she followed, but outside was real scary. There were lots of people shooting big guns, and there were Zerg, too, like she'd seen on the TV. But each Zerg had a little line of black stuck on them, like someone had them on a leash. Stella would've stopped right there, but the shiny man kept tugging her. He was saying something, and Stella couldn't hear him regular-like. But then she could _hear_ him in her head, saying "_come on let's go!_" like people sometimes did when they got real angry.

Then the ground exploded.

* * *

Thing didn't think or feel very much, but Thing was scared of being underground. When the Voice told Thing to burrow, though, Thing did just that. The _new Things_ were ready, and Thing was told to throw the _new Things_ out.

Purging its stomachs, the Zerg infestor that called itself Thing launched its eggs through the soil, each egg holding a previously-dead infested Marine. Five infestors had burrowed underneath the convoy from Lark's Crossing, and they had swallowed many dead or dying Marines while they crawled across Agria.

* * *

Corporal Thorosis turned as the ground began to rumble. "Distraction!" he yelled to his team – the small Tyranids were a distraction, and the larger creatures must be below!

Spinning in unison, the ammunition-less Space Marines charged while the first infested egg breached the surface of Agria again. Chopping down on the nearest egg in an overhead strike, Thorosis was rewarded with an animalistic howl from inside the foul thing while his chainsword's motor screamed its victory.

The Space Marines chopped and slashed, giving the Emperor's Blessing to many reanimated Marines, but one by one the eggs popped, depositing the infested Marines in shooting distance of the fleeing colonists. The colonist previously crippled by the Mutalisk yelled and fired, attracting the infested Marines' attention, which lasted for mere seconds before his shredded corpse toppled to the ground.

Mordian Guardsmen stopped and fired, their lasguns doing damage to the infested Marines as CMC neosteel conducted the lasbolt-heat inward and killed the zombie-like creatures. The infested corpses fired again, the 8mm spikes turning many of the unarmored Guardsmen into bloody ribbons. The Mordians fell back as the Commissar ordered a retreat to protect the fleeing colonists. The ever-present Zerglings closed again, while another Mutalisk flight appeared over the horizon and the infested Marines turned to kill the colonists.

...

The shiny man kept pulling her, but Stella stopped even as the bullets flew around her. There were lots and lots of strangers all around her, but Stella Waters could feel – _DADDY!_

_..._

The egg bursting open, the armored creature that used to be Sergeant Waters turned to fire at a one-legged Terran Marine. As the spikes from the former human's Impaler ripped the shouting colonist open, the infested Marine was already looking for a new target. Seeing an unarmored soldier and a small girl nearby, the creature turned and raised its weapon to fire.

...

Stella could see Daddy, but something was wrong with him. He was dressed in the big suit again, but there was a black line stuck on his back, like all the Zerg had. Stella Waters screamed as Daddy turned towards her and she saw his face. She tried to _talk_ with Daddy, even though Mommy had said that Stella shouldn't do that, but Daddy only growled at her and shot-

**I think not.**

...

The infested Marine, formerly Sergeant Waters of the Agrian Milita, exploded in a massive _ka-boom_. Sonic booms echoed across the beleaguered Terran convoy as Raynor's Raiders arrived, Banshee flyers launching rocket salvos at Zerglings while Vikings blotted Mutalisks from the sky.

But when the Bad Thing happened to Daddy, Stella didn't say a word. She didn't say a thing as the shiny man pulled her towards the 'port, or when the other people started laughing or crying. Even when the other people from home came to the 'port, everyone happy on the inside, and they all got in the big ship, Stella stayed real quiet.

Stella just kept shivering and hugged the shiny man. He hugged her back, and the white shirt around his waist got more and more red, and eventually he sort of went to sleep and he stopped being so shiny on the inside. Stella didn't say a word, and when no one hugged her anymore she sat in the corner and hugged herself as best she could.


	8. Cleaning House

**Bridge, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

Marcellus _smelled_.

The only other being who knew of the Librarian's particular method was his old teacher, who had predictably laughed himself silly when the young psyker had confessed. Marcellus, feared Librarian of the Mentors Legion, planned to keep it that way.

While most psykers _saw_ and others _heard_, Librarian Marcellus followed his nose. Right now, he could sense _fear/anger/let'sdothisshit_ from the 'enemy' - for he wasn't convinced that the unknown ship was truly a foe. _Chaos?_

Another sniff, and he was convinced. No blood-iron stink of the Great Enemy, no whispers and murmurs in the dark. "They do not associate with Chaos," he announced. _Yes, it doesn't answer your question directly. Deal with it._ Marcellus's old teacher had properly indoctrinated the fledgling psyker with a flair for the theatric, and it was one of the Librarian's favorite tools.

Long-used to dealing with ego-inflated nobles, the Admiral was not amused. "Straight answer or airlock," he shot back.

"They are non-Imperial humans, confused, and focused on a mission involving the planet – I believe they are fleeing from a threat. They fear an unknown form of xenos." Marcellus inwardly sent out a mental pulse to Chaplain Theodorus. "Theo" had far too little power to 'speak' back, but his bare-minimum psychic talent let him pick up on the Librarian's distress call: _He's worried. Warn the Captain. We may need to take action._ Severing the connection, the Librarian focused again on the threats.

"Tau involvement?" asked the Admiral. Far too many humans served under the T'au cause for the Imperium's liking.

"Possible." Marcellus was unsure; Tau left no Warp presence, making them difficult to spot. He couldn't _smell_ their particular desert-dry odor, but that only meant that the Tau weren't in range of the humans aboard the ship.

The Admiral considered his options. His instincts screamed at him that a non-Imperial was a threat, human or not. _Cleanse the heretic, purge the xenos, kill the traitor!_ Since his career prior to the massacres at Trieste had been at the head of a never-used sector fleet, the Admiral knew the litanies and chants of the Ecclesiarchy by heart, and his faith was strong.

Reason fought back. _Ships scattered, shields down and weapons offline, engines questionable and crew rioting._ "Estimate fleet battle-readiness," he ordered, his heart sinking as he considered the damage he'd done to his fleet again. "21.4342%," came the chief Techpriest's curt reply, causing the silhouetted man to curse softly.

The most powerful man in the 157th Fleet sat silent and motionless, lost deep in thought. After what seemed an eternity for the bridge crew, he announced, "Recall escort squadrons, send strikecraft to fly CAP. Secure lower decks, find the status of the other capitals and ready the Shark boats for launch."

* * *

Due to the distance and lack of an astropath, Aleph Squadron hadn't yet received the recall order, and wouldn't for another two minutes. Forming back into a tight-spread arrowhead formation, the 70-meter Lightning interceptors fired their main engines and shot towards the enemy ship.

Although their reputation as hotheads was well-deserved, the Aleph crews were still very experienced. The youngest pilot, Aleph 10, had two decades of constant combat against the bugs and greenskins, and frequent mil-standard juvenat treatments kept their reflexes honed. As they approached the _Hyperion_, communicating in encrypted tight-band comms, Alephs 1 and 3 sketched out a plan.

* * *

Lt. Imai didn't know what to do. The ten bombers (_no __way__ those things were made to kill starfighters_) had decided to ignore her drones' jamming and burn towards the _Hyperion_. Her Wraiths were made to kill other strikecraft, but she didn't trust her Gemini missiles to reliably cripple those monsters. "Match velocities and keep stealth," she ordered, racking her brains for an answer.

The nine remaining Wraith fighters of Sword Flight fired their well-stealthed engines at low power, slowly matching velocities with the massive newcomers. Hiding in the wake of the enemy ships' engines, (an old submariner's trick, adapted for space combat) the Wraiths approached to a mere 20,000 kilometers.

_Hmm…Alright, now what?_ Imai thought.

* * *

Unfortunately for Sword Flight, several small Tyranid forms had favored the same tactic when attacking Imperial Navy bomber groups. The nearly-invisible creatures, scattered out in the millions by parent hive ships, would allow strikecraft to pass and hide their approach in the ships' plasma-wakes. Several Navy strikecraft flights had been crippled by ambushes from the exploding menaces before the Imperial navigators had developed a countermeasure.

On rearguard duty, Aleph 7's copilot carefully pulsed his Fury interceptor's plasma engine, his ship's cogitator 'listening' for any return pulse.

Sword 5, almost directly behind Aleph 7, was buffeted slightly by the increased plasma-wake, the Wraith's cloaking engine struggling to compensate.

It was small, a fractional blip on an obscure readout. Human eyes would have missed it. Servitor 000486-A7, however, barely qualified as human anymore. Chittering in binary into a nearby vox-caster, it broadcast the imminent danger up to the pilots.

"Sir? Target behind us. Requesting evasive."

Aleph 1 managed to resist cheering, but only barely. "Granted."

* * *

The Dominion Wraith pilots would eventually term the maneuver a "Crazy Ivan" for reasons unknown. Armchair strategists saw it as "crude but functional," tacticians saw it as "pilot foibles," and Wraith pilots saw it and remembered why you didn't trail the Imperials too closely.

Sword Flight just saw the sunlight.

Draining their emergency plasma cells and maxing their reactors, the ten Fury interceptors of Aleph Squadron dumped every scrap of available plasma into their drives. The 70-meter craft shuddered under the strain, a massive cloud of unstable, superheated plasma billowing out from behind the unwieldy fighters.

Even 20,000 kilometers away, Sword Flight was surrounded by the white plasma-bubble in mere seconds. The Wraiths desperately tried to maneuver, but only managed to bury themselves further in the cloud.

The Wraiths were built to withstand tremendous amounts of solar radiation – from a distance. Surrounded by superheated plasma, their heat-dissipation held for mere seconds before the ships began to fail.

Lt. Imai and Swords 6 and 8 burst through the far side of the cloud. No one else followed.

* * *

**Upper decks, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

They met in -relative- secrecy, for nothing was truly secret aboard a Navy ship. Captain Nicodemus and Governor-General Kalj walked slowly together towards the _Armageddon_'s main flight bay, shielded by one of Kalj's psyker staff.

"My Librarian is worried. He might fall apart again."

"Your opinion?" asked the governor.

"Unlikely," Nicodemus responded. "No matter his previous mistakes at Trieste, he's unlikely to repeat them."

"And if he breaks?" Kalj responded.

"Then it's trouble for everyone. The Admiral has the Ecclesiarchy wrapped around his finger; it's how he got his job previously. His armsmen and the priests make a dangerous combination."

"True," the Governor-General responded. "I need a counter. The Guard and Navy may listen to Imperial faith, but they'll always listen to Imperial discipline. Let's get the commissars."

The Marine saw where Kalj's thoughts were headed. Following the "glorious victory" (i.e: near-catastrophe) at the Trieste system, the previously fractious commissars had emerged as a powerful political force, mostly by virtue of surviving the Tyranid assault. Scattered across the fleet, they were a united group that Navy commanders, Administratum officials, and every local political player had tried to court. "No," the Marine responded. "There's been too many 'accidents' in the past week. Support for the commissars is at an extra-low point, especially after the latest disaster."

"Then we need something inspirational."

"And if nothing 'inspirational' happens to come along?"

"The usual. Make one," Governor-General Kalj responded happily. "I don't have a 60-man propaganda department for nothing."

* * *

**Mid-ship, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

"Run, you bastards!" Mathias had his blood up, and he knew his men did as well. The _Armageddon's _rebelling slaves had broken less than a minute after the Guardsmen had arrived, a dozen slaves surrendering while the others ran for the lower decks. _Cowardly bastards – my grandmother could fight better than them!_ A sudden flash of memory reminded the Cadian that his grandmother _had_, in fact, sold her life pretty damn well when the Iron Warriors had sacked Kasr Vigilantum.

Watching as his men beat the dozen surrendering slaves into a line, the Sergeant prepared for the usual post-combat executions. "Ready! Aim! F-"

"HOLD!" No one had ever doubted the Lady-Commissar's lungs. The Guardsmen paused, incredulous, as Lady-Commissar Reinholdt stalked towards the slaves. "You!" a finger pointed at a naval rating who'd just begun to crawl from cover. "Send them to the forward brig!" "You!" the gore-streaked chainsword swung to point at Mathias. "Detail two men to guard the prisoners."

The Sergeant paused for a second, mind-boggled. A _Commissar?_ Letting traitors _live?_

Reinholdt caught his dumbfounded expression and grimaced. "The ship's taken damage. We'll need new servitor organics to replace the ones lost in the jump."

Mathias nodded, his universe righting itself again. Delayed executions, after all, were a long-standing commissar tradition. "Simmons! Tarrel! Guard duty."

As the two men rushed to comply, Reinholdt began issuing orders into the vox-bead in her ear. Knowing full well that he'd probably be drafted for whatever fight the _Bitch_ tried to throw herself into next, Mathias gathered his men and administered the Emperor's Peace to the wounded. The crippled slaves had already been bayoneted, but one of the Elysians had been badly gut-shot, too much for anyone to cure. The dying man thanked Mathias as he pulled the trigger, making the Sergeant wince inside.

Reinholdt beckoned, and Mathias safed his lasgun before jogging over. "Sergeant, Command is readying the Shark boarding craft. We'll be clearing ships taken by the Warp. Will your men be able to fight in those conditions?"

A long-time veteran, Mathias's instincts twigged at the question. _Say no, she executes us. Say yes..._Tired of the games, Mathias decided to let the _Bitch_ have it. "Have you heard the voices?" he asked. "You've fought the Enemy before, traveled the Warp - you've heard them once or twice. Recite the Catechisms, light a votive candle, and they go away." Reinholdt nodded mutely. "Now imagine those voices when you're young, alone, hurt, tired. Imagine hearing the voices when you're a babe in the womb, or too young to talk. Even when you can't speak Standard, you can understand what they say."

"When you're happy, the nice voice tells you to be happier still. If you're angry, the growling voice says to act on it. When you despair, the happy voice says you should enjoy the suffering. And hope? When you hope things'll get better, the quiet voice says you could make it that way – just steal something small, lie to the confessor. It doesn't take much for the Deceiver to get his claws in you, and there's no saving you once he does."

"Leave a man behind in a Whiteshield run, don't cover him properly during the exercises, and you might - _might_ - survive the flogging your own mates'll give you that night. They're doing it for your own good, and you'll learn to thank them for it, when you see what happens to servants of the Enemy. You can't be happy, you can't be angry, you can't despair, and you damn well can't hope."

"Commissar, I have heard the voices. They're more familiar to me than my mother's voice. They've call to me every day, and every day I tell them to frak off. Doubt my strength, doubt my skill, doubt my sanity. But never, _ever_ doubt my will."

The Lady-Commissar grinned suddenly. "We leave in ten minutes. Prove it then."

* * *

_I appreciate good reviews and especially appreciate good criticism: tell me what you like, what you don't, and why or why not! To be a little more specific:_

_Plot: can you understand it?  
Characters: Funny? Well-rounded? Interesting? (or not?)  
Writing style: Too disjointed, too long/short, the bad grammar gives you a headache, etc?_

_I'm settled in D.C. now, so expect updates to be a little faster than my last one - probly one every two weeks, if I can._


	9. A Meeting of the Minds

_Sorry this chapter took so long, my internship got busy and I had to revise some of the older chapters. One part of this chapter is from something I cut out of Ch. 3, so if you feel like you've read it before...well, you might've! If you have the time, I recommend re-reading the older chapters: I've changed a couple scenes, added little 'X time and Y place' things to make reading it easier, and re-orged things to make it a little more streamlined. No big changes, but it's a little more polished now._

* * *

**Grand cruiser _Implacable_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

The armor was old. It had been scavenged from a wrecked Lunar-class cruiser, bones ripped from a dead giant to adorn a dying one. The Avenger-class grand cruiser _Implacable _had armor twice as thick as a regular cruiser, of course; any ship designed around short-range gun decks deserved no less. After Trieste, however, the _Implacable _was the only remaining Avenger-class of the old Entente Sector Fleet, and the breaches in its hull were repaired with scraps from a nearby hulk. The makeshift patches kept out the vacuum, but they were weak points, and the Shark assault boats aimed for it when boarding the old giant.

_ka-**BOOM **fireinthehole tinktinktinkBOOM movemoveclear...jenkinswhatthehell-clearboss OKallclearpeople_ - the sounds of a successful B&E, along with A&B of a hapless servitor, ** echoed and rolled down the Implacable's cramped passageways. Several makeshift Guardsmen squads and one angry Commissar spilled into the p-way, ready to fight daemons but facing-

"Wait, what?"

...

Steel-toed pressure boots clattered across the _Implacable's _decks as the Guardsmen mutely continued onward. Corner-checking and shouts of 'clear!' faded as the soldiers pressed onward through the massive ship.

"What in His-"

"Not now," Sergeant Mathias ordered. In truth, he was worried too: the _Implacable_, aside from its missing crew, was perfectly normal. The walls weren't oozing blood, the bulkheads were made of steel alloys instead of human bones - everything was as it should be. Mathias had cleared a ship taken by the Warp once, and had almost lost his life while fighting the daemons possessing it (he'd nearly been eaten by a hungry table). By contrast, the _Implacable _was...fine.

"Ma'am?"

Lady-Commissar Reinholdt had fought to close Chaos Gates before, but never while aboard ship. She decided to defer to the local expert. "Your opinion, Sergeant?"

"It's...not right, ma'am. Too normal."

"Normal?"

"Ma'am, the Warp is plenty of things, but it isn't normal." The two soldiers shared a nervous laugh at that. "I've seen one ship look like this after a Warp misjump, but it arrived out near the dead-barren Halo Stars. There wasn't anything but our frigate for several billion klicks around, so that ship looked much like this." Mathias gulped. "I mean, ma'am."

Reinholdt ignored the Sergeant's slip-up. "Either the Warp is unnaturally calm here, or..." "Or something happened to change the Warp itself, ma'am."

_**B&E: breaking and entering, A&B: assault and battery_

* * *

**Bridge, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M98.41**

"Can I trust you?"

An simple question, really. Innocent, innocuous- and as loaded as the naval trooper's shotguns. Not that he'd be killed here, of course. Airlock failure was a much more discreet and deniable form of execution. Lieutenant Maroun, commander of the _Armageddon's _aerospace wings, still knew that his life could be measured in minutes if he answered the wrong way.

"I serve the Emperor," he answered. _Not treason - the priests would get me for that - but that should keep him off my back for a bit._

"As do we all," the Admiral replied. Internally, however, he was seething. He watched on his display as the Aleph Squadron interceptors - _my fighters!_ - continued to fly towards the opposing ship. _I need information, and those humans have it - if that wretched Librarian is trustworthy._

"Librarian Marcellus!" the Admiral barked. The Librarian didn't bother with a response. After an uncomfortable silence, the human tersely ordered, "Recall my fighters."

"The distance-"

"Damn the distance! Call them off!" Inwardly annoyed but outwardly calm, Marcellus opened his other senses and _smelled _the Warp around him. Psychically reaching outward, he 'sniffed' for the thirty men of Aleph Squadron - and much to his surprise, found them. The local Warp currents were so calm that he could have reached out and psychically crushed the pilots from millions of kilometers away - if he'd had the strength. The same currents which normally blocked his reach also gave him psychic strength, and the Beta-level psyker found himself as weak as an average Imperial psychic. _What in the Warp - wait, no Warp_. Marcellus's twin hearts sped up, adrenaline and synthetic stimulants flooding his metabolism. "Sirs, I have the answer."

Even in the middle of a different universe, Marcellus knew the value of looking mysterious and omnipotent.

...

"Groxshit."

"See it for yourself, my Lord." By a quirk of his psychic power or perhaps simply through years of practice, Marcellus managed to sound both respectful and mocking at the same time.

The Admiral didn't notice. "Broken equipment, calm Warp currents, a scattered fleet - that's not conclusive, psyker."

"Explain what happened to the astropaths, then, My Lord."

"We misjumped through the Warp! Anything could have happened?"

"Yes, my lord. Absolutely anything." Sarcasm dripped from the Librarian's every word.

The fleet commander growled, unwilling to concede the argument. "Fine, then. How do we get home if you're right?"

"Ask the Navigators."

...

Navigator Iblis was in heaven - that is, if heaven was very, _very _quiet. Born and raised for the sole purpose of seeing the Warp, the Navigator was accustomed to the daemons constantly surrounding living creatures. While the rest of humanity lived in blissful ignorance, the Navigator was forced to constantly see the nameless horrors waiting to jump into realspace at any time. Bred to guide ships through Hell, the Navigator was constantly reminded of his fate when his mortal body died. He'd seen damned souls lost to the Warp: he _knew _what happened when the daemons were let loose on a hapless creature. The daemons were everywhere, at every time...until now.

Safe in his armored command chair, the Navigator opened his third eye and gazed at the calm psychic sea around the fleet. _Nothing...thank the Emperor!_ The Admiral might want to get back to the Imperium and its wars, but Iblis was content simply to sit and be rocked by the gentle waves of this calm Warp.

* * *

**Admiral's quarters, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

The briefing happened in the Admiral's public rooms again by default, as even the Mechanicus had not yet restored full communications fleetwide. Officers and dignitaries trickled in slowly; many clutched red-tinged bandages or haphazardly-applied splints. Many failed to arrive at all: some were busy, some with the medicae, some on other ships (the Admiral had banned all shuttle flights for the time being), while many were dead or dying across the _Armageddon_.

A general atmosphere of shock and confusion reigned. All of them knew of the dangers of a Warp-jump, but none had seen the usual Warp-signs. Instead, much of their equipment had simply ceased to work: logic engines ceased their holy functions, hull patches failed, and many machine spirits had departed the consecrated engines that they inhabited. The problem had crippled all of the fleet's ships to some degree, and only the Mechanicus ships of the fleet still functioned anywhere close to normal.

That…and the astropaths had gone insane. Being soul-bound to the Emperor Himself made astropaths much more stable than other psykers, most of whom regarded "conversations with air molecules" as slightly more normal than "recaf in the morning." However, once the jump had been completed, the minders of the surviving astropaths had each found, judged, and executed their charges. Only prompt action by a _Lunar_-class Captain had saved an astropath for future study; the luckless individual in question lay in the ships' infirmary, restrained hand and foot to keep himself from clawing his own throat out.

"The Admiral!" the bandaged herald boomed, tapping his shock-staff several times on the deck. The Admiral, already seated on his shadowed tertiary command throne, cleared his throat. The dull murmur of shell-shocked survivors instantly gave way to a torrent of questions and accusations, all aimed at the supposed cause of the Event (as it was already being called).

"ORDER! ORDER, EMPEROR DAMN YOU!" The exhausted herald thumped his shock-staff again and again, knocking nearby dignitaries off their feet. Captain Nicodemus, standing silently in the center of the room, attempted to gauge the situation. _Disorderly and getting worse; violent conflict possible_. The Mentor was considerably better with normals than most Marines, but he remained unsure of what to do as the near-conflict worsened.

_I'm dreadfully sorry, Captain._ A sudden mental rush overwhelmed Nicodemus's normally relaxed mental defenses, spinning him before he could react. With a sudden mental assault, the Captain regained control over his mind to feel himself reaching for his bolt pistol, his attention focused on a particularly belligerent priest.

_Wait, you must- GET HIM! NOW!_ The Captain resisted the psychic impulse with difficulty, his form locked and his attention focused inward. As the shouting continued, the priest reached into his voluminous robes and began to pull out- _Mars-pattern straight magazine .75-caliber bolt pistol,** target will likely shoot a high-ranking officer – target is not necessary for primary mission – execute._

The Captain's bolt pistol sounded, the _whoosh_ of the fin-stabilized round drowned out by the sudden _ka-**boom**_ as the massive shell detonated inside the bulky priest. Instinct and training subsiding again, the Captain lowered his pistol as the nearby blood-ridden dignitaries reached for their weapons. Only the presence of the priest's bolt pistol, his severed arm still inside the trigger guard, prevented the nearby Ecclesiarchy members from firing on the Marine. However, they still aggressively drew their weapons, chainswords revving and guns cocking as confusion spread.

"SECURITY!" the Admiral boomed, causing the assembled naval troopers to snap their hot-shot lasguns to firing position at the entire crowd. Nicodemus glanced across the crowd: _the __situation's critical. Whoever you are, you saved the Admiral at the cost of the command staff._

_I know_, the now-chagrined foreign mental voice whispered to the Marine. _Any ideas?_

The Marine lowered his mental defenses and 'thought' as loudly as he could, _Embarrass them. Cause extreme heat around the room's ceiling autosensor. Near the extra-ugly chandelier, middle of the ceiling._

The autosensor triggered with a sudden _breek-breek-breek_, and fire-retardant foam flew into the room from recessed hoses. A sudden mental pulse, too weak to affect the Marine but powerful enough to stagger the regular humans, caused the confused dignitaries to drop their weapons and reach for their heads for a second.

_That work?_ the voice 'spoke' again. Nicodemus glanced across the room: confusion had replaced anger, as the fleet's VIPs attempted to wipe the rapidly-expanding red foam off their robes. _Better_, the Marine thought grudgingly.

"Now then," the Admiral commented over the quieting crowd. "Let's discuss our current predicament."

...

He broke the news quietly, steadily, and without hesitation. "We are in a different place. The Warp is unnaturally calm, but the Astronomican is nowhere in sight. Our fleet has sustained damage, and we are apparently near to a human-inhabited planet. We are attempting to contact the humans of this new...'universe.'"

The reactions were about as expected: some declared the Admiral a heretic, some hung their heads in worry or grief. Others schemed and calculated the effects of this new change; Marcellus kept his eyes and his 'nose' on them. Even as he watched the Imperial elite jockey for power in an uncertain world, the Librarian's other senses were aimed at the planet and the strange ship orbiting it.

* * *

**Rec room, _Hyperion_**

**Low orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

******June 19, 998.M41**  


Tosh did not know what was going on. This was unusual.

An extremely powerful psyker, and further enhanced by his exposure to the unstable terrazine gas, Tosh was both extremely psychically talented and emotionally unstable. Unable to filter others' thoughts, Tosh felt and knew what was happening in a solar system, often before Raynor and Horner did. However, right now no one else knew anything, which left Tosh in the dark.

Ignoring the furtive glances from crewmembers around him, Tosh crushed one of his voodoo dolls and _looked_ out.

* * *

The two psychic powers met somewhere in the void. Marcellus being a Space Marine and Tosh being Tosh, they each did their level best to kill the other. Tosh was incredibly powerful, a Primaris-level psyker by Imperial standards even before his exposure to terrazine. Marcellus, by contrast, lacked the strength that he would draw from the turbulent Warp but had uncountable years of finesse and discipline. Born and raised in a universe inhabited by uncountable trillions of creatures which _fed _on psykers, Marcellus knew how to hide from a powerful psychic presence.

He hid, and struck. The battle of wills was fought through hyperspace, as the two powers dueled and grappled. Tosh flailed his power in wide sweeps, while the Librarian dodged the spectre's attacks with the ease born out of literal centuries of experience. One hit from Tosh would cripple the Librarian, but he was careful to avoid that hit. Tosh's power was near-inexhaustable, but his will and concentration were not. The longer they fought, the more uncoordinated Tosh's attacks and defenses became. Finally seeing an opportunity, the Librarian ignored Tosh's psychic sweep and attacked the spectre's mind itself.

...

_-bastard's cheating, I'm sure of. Aces and a-_

_-hell, the port actuator's down AGAIN? Oh my bunk, I'm gonna miss you-_

_-Raynor says 'shit,' they say 'how much and where do you want it.' How do I-_

The psychic backwash of Tosh's mind washed over Marcellus. He staggered slightly as Tosh's fragmented mind spilled its contents over, the Librarian quickly regaining control and looking for information. Marcellus knew that Tosh would quickly rally and shove him away, so the Librarian ruthlessly hunted information down in Tosh's mind.

Marcellus sifted through the stream of other people's thoughts that constantly ran through Tosh's mind, looking for anything useful. He learned that the ship _battlecruiser, Behemoth-class_ was named the _Hyperion _-_ damnfool name, if you ask me_. It had launched Wraith fighters to scout, which had taken casualties _I don't know who you people are, but I swear that I will damn well end you myself!_ and that the ship's mission in-system was to rescue trapped colonists_._

While he searched through the enemy psyker's mind, Marcellus saw the _Captain_. Compared to the world-ending horrors which the Librarian had seen and fought, this _Captain _was physically unremarkable. The man - _Raynor _- lacked psychic talents, commanded a single warship, and had no planets to call home. It didn't matter worth a damn to Marcellus; he'd never trusted his gut instinct anyway. Marcellus's talent for premonition was nearly nonexistent, but his senses were screaming at him that this _Captain _could make or destroy empires.

As Tosh tried to secure his own mind, Marcellus drifted towards the small dropship leaving the _Hyperion_, bypassing the psyches of crewmen and officers as he went. _No servitors...strange._ Finally reaching the _Captain_, Marcellus extended a needle of psychic power and gently poked Raynor in the back of the head.

-_Knock, knock._-

* * *

_**The good Captain's job is to test new weapons and strategies…so yes, he's a complete gun nut. Show him a baby and he'll think about giving the Emperor's Peace with his chainsword, but give him a Ryza-pattern double-cell short-barrel plasma pistol and he'll turn into a 10-year-old. :)_


	10. Raising the Flag

**Dropship _Me Love You Long Time_**

**Low orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"Who's there?"

Several Marines nearby snickered at Raynor's outburst. Nonplussed, Raynor glared them into silence before concentrating inward again. _Hey! You! Yeah, I'm talking to you!_

No answer came back. Raynor activated his comm: "Matt, I think whoever's in charge over there just tried to get in touch with me."

The answer was immediate: "Well, tell them to stop shooting us! I've got six Wraiths down and their bombers will be in weapons-range in under a minute!"

'Broadcasting' again, Raynor 'yelled' as loud as he could: _Oy! That's MY people you're shooting up there! Either help us kill some Zerg, or piss the hell off!_

A dry, amused mental chuckle came back: _Oh, really? And should we decide to do neither?_

_Listen up, dipshit. My name is Jim Raynor, and I'm the Koprulu Sector's #1 wanted man for a reason. The Dominion's doing their damnedest to kill me, the Zerg are trying to eat my ship, and half the time the Protoss want me dead to boot. You want to shoot me too? Get the hell in line!_

The voice came back, more cautious this time: _Koprulu?_

* * *

**Starport, near Lark's Crossing**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Imperial Hawks that day.

A carpet of Tyranid forms covered the nearby landscape, new organisms replacing the ones reduced to bloody smears by human guns. Friendly aircraft bombarded the 'nids, tearing some apart with rockets and dueling with flying bioforms above.

Corporal Thorosis had been ecstatic at the thought of a nice, mindless enemy to fight. Leave the politics to the officers: he and his team would hold the line! Their bolters had run dry hours ago, but the technosorcerers had armed the Marines with strange new weapons. Thorosis found that he already missed the whish-**BLAM!** of his trusty bolter; this new gun fired many smaller, armor-penetrating rounds like an autogun.

Of course, the Corporal and his two remaining Marines had little enough time to shoot; with Tyranids pressing on all sides of the humans' spaceport, the Marines found themselves rushing from place to place to reinforce battered defense positions. The Imperial Hawks didn't mind; any chance to use chainswords was a good one, after all! Nevertheless, even the Imperial Hawk's boundless stores of faith were taxed by the endless numbers of enemies. The armored humans were defending well, a hill of corpses around the entire spaceport showing the impressive range of their infantry weapons. Thorosis spared a (possibly heretical) prayer to the Emperor for their continued morale: he had seen many 'normal' humans break under lesser Tyranid assaults than this.

Armor, air support, artillery, Space Marines - it still wasn't enough. The Imperial Hawk wasn't clairvoyant and had no hint of Warp sorcery in him, but he knew in his bones that they were doomed if the assault kept up. The humans' technosorcery had kept the guns supplied with ammunition, but the Corporal knew that their magic would reach its limit eventually.

_We need a miracle_, he thought to himself as his team ran to reinforce another flank.

* * *

**Dropship _Me Love You Long Time_**

**Low orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

"They need a miracle."

"Sir?"

"Sergeant, where would you put the fireworks down there?" Raynor asked. Psychic conversations with crazy humans could wait: he had Zerg to shoot and a colony to evac. "We've got the _Hyperion_ standing by in low orbit, so where should she put the Yamato strike?"

The Marine extended his gauntlet, the fingers pointing towards a nearby mining operation. Despite the brown carpet of Zerg forms covering the nearby landscape, several Vespene refineries stood tall amid the wave of creatures. "Sir, that area's overrun, just like everything else. Thing is, that refinery's automated. It's kept producing more Vespene gas even as the Zerg have come through, and it's been storing the excess."

Raynor's grasp of chemistry hadn't gotten past high school, but he held a doctorate in Blowing Shit Up. "Good idea." He activated his long-range comms with the _Hyperion_: "Lieutenant!"

"Yessir?"

"Grid-square B-4, target coordinates 43 by 82." He knew it was cheesy, they knew it was cheesy, but fuckitall it was still fun: "Bring the rain."

* * *

Power flowed from the two chained novas in the Hyperion's core, the massive Yamato generators spooling up as the old girl's crew began the time-honored 'rain dance' once again. Projectors studded along the ship's bow sparked to life, barely-understood technology blinking ready lights across the board. As the vacuum of space _hummed _to the titanic energies exerted on it, a single boom extended into the 'eye' created by the magnetic storm.

Right on time, the bomb on the boom went off.

The hydrogen bomb held in the 'eye' detonated on schedule, the generators barely containing the runaway fusion reaction. The newborn star pushed for an escape, and found one as one side of its electromagnetic prison disappeared. The new star followed the path of least resistance, speeding away from the _Hyperion _and towards the hapless planet of Agria. Dispersed slightly by the atmosphere, the uncontrolled reaction nevertheless continued towards the ground.

Now a wave rather than a sphere, the runaway explosion found resistance in its path, as dirt and an unfortunate Vespene refinery blocked its path. The wave crashed against the resistance, turning the refinery into slag and igniting the volatile gas stored within. The entire area brewed up with an earthshaking roar, a gigantic cloud of dirt rising from the crater carved out of the earth.

Raynor wondered how the _Hyperion _had beat its last firing time by two seconds. The remaining Mordians and Space Marines were too disciplined to react.

The Agrian colonists shouted thanks to God for bitch-slapping the unbelievers with His Almighty Pimp Hand.

* * *

**Outside starport**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 998.M41**

It was some type of groundcar; Two couldn't tell any more than that. His knee still pulped and near-useless, the Marine carefully seated himself in the rear of the vehicle as the prisoner - _soldier_, he reminded himself - started the engine and pointed out the basics of driving it to a Mordian. With the two Marines in the back and three wounded Mordians crammed in the front seat, the last living humans near Lark's Crossing roared off-road to the starport.

"Heh. Clown car," Walker giggled. His med-suit was malfunctioning due to the plasma-hit, so the Agrian's suit was giving him a constant stream of powerful opiates. He desperately tried to navigate with his HUD, but kept getting distracted by all the shiny lights. Walker didn't need to bother; the Mordians simply drove towards the noise of artillery.

...

With the starport visible on a hill less then a klick away, the 'clown car' roared towards safety in a cloud of gravel and Zergling guts. They skidded up the slope, artillery ripping into the Zerg on either side. A Hydralisk slithered itself in front of the groundcar, losing its life in a hail of Impaler spikes but stopping the truck cold. The Mordians piled out from the front seats, firing their lasguns at random. The Marines left the groundcar by the simple expedient of going through it: Two's armored bulk crumpled the front seat, while Walker scrapped the engine under his half-ton weight.

The humans stumbled onward, one Mordian disappearing under a Roach's bulk. His screams were cut short by the creature's scything claws, the Roach's snarls by Two's plasma-fire. Walker's aim was bad even at the best of times, and now was hardly his shining moment. His Impaler jerked at random, the colonist struggling to keep the weapon level with the onrushing Zerg. Two's accuracy was near-perfect, even when firing a plasmagun while running. The Marine's shredded knee and his weapon's inaccurate fire betrayed him, however; the Imperial Hawk was unable to slag a Baneling that rolled steadily closer.

A Mordian Guardsman changed course, firing his lasgun from the hip as he charged the Baneling. His lasgun 'clicked' on empty, but he never needed it. Flinging himself at the rolling bomb, the Mordian was consumed in a ball of Zerg acid.

...

**BOOM.**

Even in his drug-addled state, Walker could see the true danger coming. Its footfalls shook the ground, its form blotted out the weak sunlight. Its roar toppled the group's last Mordian Guardsman, the unarmored man flopping over from the assault. Seeing the monster looming over them, Walker jumped for safety.

He almost made it.

The Ultralisk's tusk swept through the air, cutting through Walker's right arm like the neosteel simply wasn't there. Walker staggered under the strain, wincing as the shock blindsided him. His Impaler dropping along with Walker's gun-hand, the Agrian screamed and went down.

Two sidestepped the Ultralisk's other tusk, but his training betrayed him. The Space Marine had practiced close-combat manuevers for decades, but never with a shattered knee. Training made him jump to dodge the whistling death, but Two's left leg crumpled as he tried to land. Ignoring the pain lancing through his body and turning his weapon to face the monster, Two rapidly fired three plasma rounds into the softer flesh under the Ultralisk's armored head.

The monster bellowed in rage and pain, but Two's plasmagun vented its stored plasma from side vents, as its machine spirit responded to the Marine's abuse. _Frakkitall_, the Marine thought sourly, before dropping his plasmagun and falling back on his combat knife.

The muted _roar _of Impaler fire made him look up.

...

Their machine spirits spitting death downrange, the three unhurt Marines of Corporal Thorosis's command advanced with measured steps on the Tyranid. Although the .50-caliber shells bounced like rain off the leviathan's armored hide, the monster closed its eyes and turned its attention away from the two downed Marines.

Matching steps, the Space Marines dropped their new weapons and drew their trusted chainswords. Accelerating to a 40kph sprint, the three Marines leapt onto the advancing creature.

The Ultralisk was built to sweep away Terran infantry and Protoss Zealots, and to tear apart armored structures with its claws. The creature was prepared for the little ones to use their metal-fire, while its tusks sliced them into pieces.

It was not prepared for the little ones to leap on its back.

The Space Marines did not aim for the killing blow. Less-experienced Space Marines, when battling massive Tyranids or Daemons, would look for a jugular vein or carotid artery to cut with one stroke. More experienced bug-hunters, like the four Imperial Hawks, aimed to kill such large targets with hundreds of cuts.

Three, landing on the monster's midsection, aimed for the backbone and grimly dug in with his chainsword. The creature shuddered and attempted to buck him off, causing the chainsword to bite deeper. Four landed on the upper thigh of the Ultralisk's front left leg, where he dug into the gaps between its armor plates and drew streams of black ichor from the creature.

Thorosis landed chainsword-first on the Ultralisk's armored neck. His weapon _skreed_ off the monster's organic plate, but the Marine used the opportunity to dig his combat knife into the flesh between its plates. Levering himself up, the Corporal flung himself at the creature's head. The creature's head was too well-armored for a killing blow, but the Marine quickly grabbed the monster's attention.

The Ultralisk roared, bucking and waving its head to dislodge the Imperial Hawk. Thorosis grimly hung on, batting at the creature's eyes when they opened and driving his chainsword at any weakpoint which presented itself. Three, however, did the real damage: his chainsword finally finished sawing through the Ultralisk's main backbone with a murderous snarl. Although the monster had two more spines to support its weight, it found itself sagging under the extra strain, which wasn't helped by Four finding what passed for an Ultralisk's hamstrings and severing them.

Dropping to three legs, the creature bellowed its anger at the little ones. If it had independent thoughts, the Ultralisk would have been thinking _little ones breaking the rules!_ Its confusion was short-lived: even as the Space Marines moved to cripple it, the Ultralisk's life was cut short by a blob of plasma.

...

He was bleeding out internally. His suit wasn't responding properly. Hell, he'd lost an arm. Walker wasn't sure how he'd managed to grab, aim, and fire that crazy's plasmagun into the 'lisk's open mouth. Still, it worked just fine. The plasma-cloud hit the softer skin inside the Ultralisk's mouth, flash-frying its brain almost instantly.

Adrenaline giving him a fresh boost of energy, Walker staggered to his feet. He looked around: the armored crazy was already trying to stand, but only one of the unarmored humans had lived through the fight. Walker reached for the man with his remaining arm, helping him to his feet, before moving his armor's shoulder over to the armored man. The two wounded Marines slowly staggered onward, Two leaning on Walker and hopping clumsily on his right leg, while the Mordian Guardsman tried to hold him up.

...

Two, seeing the wounded soldier fire his plasmagun to kill the looming monster and support the other Imperial Hawks, felt a sudden and fierce surge of pride. Grabbing the soldier's strange weapon and wrenching his severed arm from the trigger guard, the Marine brought the unfamiliar gun up in time to kill more small Tyranids.

The three uninjured Marines, on seeing their target die, quickly leapt off of the monster's back and sprinted back to their dropped weapons. Picking up his new weapon and firing downrange into the Tyranid mob, Thorosis was disturbed by Imperial-encrypted chatter coming in over the vox. "...units, report status. This is 157th Fleet Command. All Imperial units, report status."

Short on time, Thorosis responded with a picture. Looking down at the struggling humans, the Corporal snapped a holopict offhand before returning to the battle.

* * *

The holopict is dominated by two Marines, one Terran and one Imperial. The Terran is missing an arm and the Space Marine is dragging one leg behind; they hold each other up while struggling forward. The Space Marine is firing an Impaler rifle one-handed at a nearby Hydralisk, while a bolt of plasma from the Terran Marine's appropriated plasmagun slags a leaping Zergling. A Mordian Guardsman desperately tries to hold up the Space Marine, his face locked in a grimace of pain, while a Viking descends behind the group on twin pillars of flame.

The pict reached the Armageddon's sensoria, the powerful arrays picking up the broadcast and routing it to stations fleetwide. Astonished fleet crewmen spread the holo to friends and officers nearby, who did the same to others. Comms officers watched over communications at every station to keep such seditious pictures from spreading, and would have stopped the holopict - if they hadn't been dead or busy elsewhere.

The crew of the 157th Fleet knew only that something had gone very, very wrong. The Warp misjump had hit them all, and rumors abounded fleetwide in the absence of accurate information. The pict from Agria hit the Imperials like a thunderstorm.

A Terran would see two injured Marines fighting for survival against the Zerg. The Imperials saw a near-mythical Son of the Emperor 'deigning' to give and receive help from two humans. No matter that one of the humans was a noble (judging by his ridiculously-expensive powered armor), a mere Guardsman was supporting a Marine! Obviously, the Emperor had guided the 157th Fleet to an outpost of Imperial humans who were under attack by vile Tyranids, and the situation on the ground was desperate enough that the Marines needed the lowly Guardsmens' help.

When an unsecured broadcast from the Governor-General accidently revealed that such powered armor was cheap and used universally, that the local humans had never heard of the Emperor, and that the plasmagun-wielding 'noble' was a lowly PDF trooper, the reaction was...impressive, to say the least.


	11. Man On Marine: End Part 1

**Starport, near Lark's Crossing**

**Agria, Terran Dominion,**

**June 19, 988.M41**

The Imperial Hawk called 'Two' watched his way of life end.

As far as endings go, it wasn't particularly impressive. A more ignorant individual might even call it routine - Two knew better.

A Mordian Guardsman was being sealed into Terran CMC armor.

The Guardsman took several clumsy steps, hesitantly reaching his hands outward. His hands lost inside the "arm" of the suit, the Mordian had to translate his own hand movement into the massive gauntlets. Still unsteady, the Imperial slowly took hold of a rifle held out to him. The man-sized Impaler would have been a squad support gun without the armor, but the CMC-assisted Mordian could wield it like a lasgun.

A true-blue Imperial was using non-STC xenotechnology. A Guardsman was holding enough firepower and armor to possibly threaten a Marine. A loyal Mordian was cooperating with possible techno-heretics.

Despite his near-automatic revulsion, Two laughed quietly inside his helm. _Well, this should be different._

* * *

**Tertiary landing bay, battleship _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M988.441**

Sergeant Mathias was tired. Sergeant Mathias was worn-out. Sergeant Mathias had been thrown through the Warp, fought slaves, been (barely) pardoned by a Commisssar several times, and had assaulted and cleared a grand cruiser. Sergeant Mathias wanted nothing more than to choke down a ration bar and collapse in his rack for ten hours.

Yet when Sergeant Mathias landed on the _Armageddon_ again after clearing the disturbingly empty _Implacable_, he mentally kissed his rack goodbye and got back to sergeant-work. Something had gotten the old behemoth stirred up; small knots of crewmen were clustered around the holo-players in the landing bay, arguing and yelling. Checking his flanks, Mathias could already see a fistfight breaking out between two bluebellies on his left, and a Guardsman with his right hand disturbingly held in his pocket - _ganger, possibly. Hand in his pocket like that, in a situation like this? He's got a weapon, shiv or laspistol most likely._

The entire crew seemed to be standing around with their asses hanging out, and if there was one thing that Mathias did well - "HEY!" Grabbing a pistol-sized autogun that he'd "borrowed" years ago for emergencies, Mathias emptied an extended clip into the ceiling. Veterans ducked for cover as the sound of ricochets pattered around the room. Several of them drew weapons, before quickly hiding them at the sight of the Lady-Commissar of the fleet exiting the Shark assault boat. Mathias deliberately ignored them, giving his Level One Glare of Doom around the bay while continuing in his best Sergeant Voice:

**"You SCUM-SUCKING MAGGOTS! Anyone care to explain why no one's doing the Emperor's work today?"**

A naval rating, one hand clutched around an Imperial icon, dared to speak up: "Heresy-"

Mathias rounded on the unfortunate man: **"HERESY? That's for the priests to decide!"** The sergeant flinched internally, realizing that he was usurping the Commissar's job. _Oh well, too late to back out now._ **"You think that you know better than the priests?"**

Withering under the sergeant's gaze, the rating squirmed uncomfortably: "N-no-"

**"Good! The Mentors have a Chaplain around here, and if any of you pukes wants to tell him about heresy then I know he'd _love_ to ask you about it!"** As Mathias expected, the mere mention of a Space Marine Chaplain shut the crowd up. Whispers and muted conversations broke out, and Mathias knew that he'd only slowed the real problem down slightly, but he gave himself a mental slap on the back. _As long as they're working, they're not rioting. Here's hoping it lasts._

If there was one thing that Sergeant Mathias did well, it was administering a good ass-chewing. Right now, the entire crew seemed to need it.

...

"Good work, sergeant."

"Thank you, ma'am." Mathias was sweating inside; he had learned from long experience to _never_ trust praise from a Commissar.

Reinholdt, however, simply gazed around them at the rapidly-emptying landing bay. "Sergeant, can you tell me what in His Name is going on?"

"Wish I knew myself, ma'am. I think you should get to the bridge soon, though."

The Commissar merely cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Mathias to continue.

"Um, Lady-Commissar, if the scuttlebutt is true then there's heresy or treason going on. Fleet, Guard, Mechanicus - then they'll all want to know what position the Commissars will be taking."

Reinholdt grimaced. "And I speak for the Commissars," she muttered, almost to herself. She paused, before grabbing her red Commissar sash and handing it to the sergeant. "Mathias, take your men and deal with the lower-decks problems. Restore order, no matter what. You have my authority in this matter."

Sergeant Mathias handled the Lady-Commissar's symbol of authority with more care than he would give to a leaking plasma cannon. "Ma'am?" The Lady-Commissar in question, however, was already sprinting towards an exit.

"Well, shit."

* * *

**Cobra destroyer _Compensating For Something_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M988.41**

Nicodemus felt exposed without his armor. He agreed with Governor-General Kalj's suggestion: since the local humans were used to powered armor, an unarmored Space Marine would likely be more intimidating than another human encased in overlarge armor. Still, the Marine hadn't packed for diplomacy (in fact, he hadn't really packed, either), so Captain Nicodemus of the Mentors Legion was somewhat apprehensive about conducting a diplomatic First Contact mission in the Marine equivalent of a bathrobe. He cleared his thoughts and reached for his handheld vox: _enough worrying about that - not when there's plenty of other things to worry about._

"Sergeant, tell me the situation aboard the fleet."

The ever-loyal Sergeant Cato responded quickly: "Complicated, sir."

"Complicated?"

"Actually, scratch that. It left 'complicated' behind several hours ago and has reached 'clusterfrak' status. Any more of this and I'm requesting orbital support."

Nicodemus suppressed a grin. "Sergeant, we _are_ the orbital support."

"Well, that's good to hear, my lord. I'd hate for things to go more pear-shaped than they already have." Cato got to business: "My lord, the fleet's as confused as a Khornate berserker in the Land of Peace and Happiness. They've seen a holo of Space Marines working alongside non-Imperial humans, and that's confused the piss out of them."

The Captain frowned. "And how do they know that the humans are non-Imperial? Are communications that bad fleetwide right now?"

"Worse than that, my lord. No comm security, and emissions control is a terrible joke. The fleet captains prioritized battle-readiness above anything else, and fleet security took the short straw. As for why they know, the Governor-General sent out a fleetwide communique in the clear, describing what his pet psykers had found. Nearly everything with a vox picked up the broadcast."

The Marine glared over at Governor-General Kalj, who was looking nearly serene in his ceremonial armor as they waited for these..."Terrans" to show up. _He knew, the bastard!_ Nicodemus knew that Kalj was a staunch progressive, but hadn't realized how far the man was willing to go. "Sergeant, I'm assuming that suppressing the rumor is impossible by now?"

Cato gave a short laugh. "My lord, the only thing faster than the speed of light is the speed of gossip. By now, the cargo hauler servitors are probably discussing this. If the fleet commanders spin this against the Imperial Hawks and implicate them as sympathizers, though, we could be caught in the feeding frenzy."

Nicodemus understood his veteran sergeant's worries. If the fleet commanders unified and persecuted the Imperial Hawks for cooperating with heretics, the Mentors would be forced to defend their fellow Astartes. It would be the Badab War all over again - loyal Astartes against the Imperium. The Captain snarled as he realized how the Marines been outmaneuvered by Kalj. "These Terrans had _damn _well better not be heretics, then." _For better or worse, we're stuck with the Guard and with these Terrans._

* * *

**Cobra destroyer _Compensating For Something_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, M988.41**

The first formal meeting between Terran and Imperial leaders was a subdued affair, to say the least. One Terran dropship, loaded to the gills with Marines from Raynor's Raiders, met at an unofficial "halfway point" between the Imperial fleet and the sole Terran battlecruiser. A small Imperial Cobra destroyer, 'only' 2km from stem to stern, provided the agreed-upon meeting ground. Following a small craft into an interior landing bay, Raynor had to fight off a sudden stab of apprehension. _Feels like I'm on the edge of an awfully steep cliff here._

Exiting the dropper with several Marines following, Raynor kept his visor open and weapons holstered. No need to start a war because he got a case of the jitters, after all. With a fireteam of his Marines standing guard behind him, Raynor watched as a small delegation approached the cooling dropship. The leading man was dressed in obviously ceremonial armor, with a subordinate carrying a massive feathered helm and several lightly-armored soldiers marching behind. _Definitely a ground-pounder - a veteran, too._ The man's array of scars, his wary behavior, and the state of his weapons (well-used, scratches along the sides, scorch marks near the muzzles) undermined any humor that the Raiders might have felt towards his ridiculous getup.

Stepping forward, Jim Raynor was interested to see the man's reaction to his armor. His eyes showed - _fear?_ - at Raynor's skeleton-painted black armor, but looked almost covetous at the fireteam's CMC gear. Raynor shook off his apprehension, and extended his gauntlet for a handshake. The newcomer extended his unarmored hand without hesitation, even though an attendant held his own gauntlets nearby. Jim's opinion of the man rose again, as his steel-crusher 'hands' delicately shook the veteran's human-normal hands. _He's short for a general. Kind of-_

The next figure was..._oh dear God what is that thing? _Raynor's perception was shot down in flames by the next newcomer approaching him. Wearing a simple belted robe, and flanked by two power armored figures behind him, the "man" was over eight feet tall and built like the love child of a Siege Tank and a T-rex. The figures on either side of the 'monster' were similarly strange: one held a staff with electricity arcing over it, while the other had black armor similar to Raynor's own gear.

A now-familiar voice intruded into Raynor's thoughts. _Greetings, human. Take us to your leader._

Raynor 'thought' back: _I am the leader, bitch._

_Manners, manners! Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Librarian Marcellus - with me are Captain Nicodemus and Chaplain Theodorus._

Jim was still annoyed. _Well, "us's," what the hell are you doing here?_

_Funny; I was about to ask you the same thing._

...

The debate was strange for both sides: with only psykers able to take part, the normal humans were reduced to glaring at each other. This lasted until one of the Terran Marines realized that an asshole from 2nd Squad had decided to one-up their long-running team rivalry, and put itching powder in his armor. The sight of a 'nobleman' scratching himself furiously proved too much for some of the Imperial Guardsmen, which set off a round of laughter around the small landing bay.

Although the soldiers came from radically different universes, they were all veterans, and with the approval of their respective commanders they began to mingle. Impalers swapped hands with lasguns, the Guardsmen staggering under the CMC-sized weapons while the Terran marines struggled to not crush the human-scale guns. The itching Terran performed a quick-release on his armor, the pieces _clunk_ing to the floor as Guardsmen clustered around. Seeing the Imperials' obvious interest in CMC armor, the formerly-itching Terran began to slowly suit himself back up in CMC armor, with braver Guardsmen daring themselves to handle the blasphemous machinery.

Watching the mingling crowd, Nicodemus felt true fear for the first time in a half-century. _What will happen to us? What will happen to Imperials in this universe?_ The Marine was shaken by the easy camaraderie that the Guardsmen showed with these 'Terrans,' and remembered that he had to support this techno-heresy if he wanted to keep the Astartes intact. The Imperium did not forgive treachery or heresy, even from the Emperor's favored sons: either the Terrans were not heretics, or the Imperial Hawks were. Even though Kalj's personal Guardsmen had obviously picked up his heretical habits and even though other Guardsmen might resist this lure, some Imperials would eventually follow their example. _What will happen in the fleet, then?_

...

Taking a short break from the psychic negotiations, Raynor watched Faoud strip-down to get the itching powder out of his suit. Raynor reminded himself to have a 'chat' with both squads; things had turned out alright today, but if that shit had happened in battle - _not good at all_. _Better fix that rivalry 'fore it gets worse._ Turning away from the Imperials and the crowd of soldiers, Raynor opened a private channel with Matt Horner, commander of the _Hyperion._

"Matt, make sure the bar's got a handle of the good stuff tonight. I plan to get mighty hammered once this's all sorted out."

"Sir?"

Raynor reconsidered. _I've been dry for half a month now, might as well keep it that way._ "Nevermind. Listen, these people say they've called off their fighters. Is that true?"

"Yessir. Their bombers - fighters, I mean - turned away before we started shooting."

Raynor let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Damn good. Let's hope it stays that way. Get everyone down to the Lark's Crossing Starport - we'll need the place to land our troops."

"Sir? You mean, we're holding here?"

"Matt, these people have a real hatred for the bugs. They call 'em Tyranids for some reason, but they've got some score to settle with the Zerg and I, for one, don't plan on getting in their way. 'Sides, if they're busy shooting up the bugs, that means one more habitable world that ain't getting munched by Kerrigan."

Matt paused. "Yessir, but this doesn't change the plan too much, right?"

Raynor shook his head slowly. "Matt, this changes everything."

* * *

**Admiral's quarters, _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 19, 988.M41**

The Admiral watched the holovid mutely, disbelief warring with rage across his face. The chief priests from the old Sector Fleet stood by the commander, each one as incandescent as him. Imperial Hawks? Using heretical weapons, working to save non-Imperials? These people had to be contained. Had to be kept away from anyone who was still loyal. If even Space Marines could be corrupted by these...Terrans, then no normal human was safe.

Watching the holovid, Reinholdt's statement summed up both their thoughts:

"Heresy."

* * *

_End Part One_

_And that wraps up the first part of this fic! I want to thank my readers, especially anyone who's left a review. My beta reader got too busy to help, so I'm relying on reviews and criticism to get perspective on the story. Part 2 is mostly planned out, and although the first chapter will take a bit, I should have it out sometime in March. Until then, have fun and good luck!_


	12. Part 2: Behind Enemy Lines

_Aaaaaand it's back! Sorry for the wait, everyone - just took me a while to get my act together and put this first chapter in place. C&C welcome as always, please feel free to speak your mind._

_Also, kudos to GhanjRho for beta-ing - much appreciated, man!_

* * *

**157th Fleet, near battleship _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 25, 998.M41**

**Event + 6 days**

"Matt?"

"Sir?"

"About those ships..."

"You're headed to the big one, sir. The 5-klick one. Right?"

"Yeah. Only...I think we got it wrong."

"Sir?"

"That thing ain't five klicks long - looks to be twelve klicks minimum. How in the hell do they steer it anyway?"

The ship was huge. Huger than huger than huger than huge. Terran battlecruisers, the heavy hitters of any Terran fleet, were meant to dodge Protoss plasma and Zerg Scourge attacks. Raynor could see how the 'Imperial' ship would fight: _this monster's a meat shield - it takes the enemy fire that would shred the smaller ships. Not that any of these monsters would be 'small,' really - their tiniest freighters are the size of a Herky-bird freighter!_ Raynor shook his head again, still trying to wrap his head around the monster spacecraft.

An infantryman by trade, Raynor knew very little of space combat. Most of his experience in it could be summed up in three words: _Don't get shot_. Without Zerg numbers or the physics-defying Protoss psychic-whatsit armor, Terran ships dodged in order to live. The Imperials obviously had a different philosophy, and the technology to back it up. Passing under a leering gargoyle with a gun muzzle pointing from its mouth, Jim Raynor felt like he was watching a holovid.

"What have I gotten myself into this time...?"

* * *

**Lower decks, battleship _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 25, 998.M41**

**Event + 6 days**

It had taken five days, sixteen field executions, and more yelling than he'd cared to remember. His voice had given out on day four, and now the most he could manage was a strangled croak. His legs dragged like lead pipes, his head drooped if he let himself relax for less than a second. The Guardsmen pressed into service looked like brain-dead zombies, shuffling from riot to riot with all the enthusiasm of Whiteshields on latrine duty.

But he'd held them. It was worth it.

With the officers, priests, and commissars busy dealing with the effects of the Event, Sergeant Mathias and the Guardsmen he'd pressed into service had almost single-handedly suppressed the lower-deck riots aboard the _Armageddon_. Not to say that things were quiet - naval security had to break up fights or near-riots every other day, and Mathias had seen "that damn holo" everywhere he looked. The Guardsmen had put a lid on the violence, but the underlying fear and uncertainty remained. _Frakitall - I've done my duty._

Attempting to clear his throat, Mathias barely managed a wheeze, which his subordinates pretended to not hear: "Right, everyone, the worst problem kids are either dead or fled. Get some chow and rack-time, 'cuz we'll be going dirtside once high command gets their panties unsorted." The exhausted men merely slumped off towards the aft barracks decks, hoping for an open place to crash in. Silently wishing he could follow them, Mathias slowly grabbed the millstone around his neck and looked at it once again.

It was a simple, innocuous garmet: a short blood-red sash, with no markings except for re-sewn areas (claws, mostly). It had saved the Sergeant's life twice already, two would-be assassins stopping at the sight of such a fearsome symbol around the Guardsman. It was a commissar's sash, and Sergeant Mathias was scared shitless of it.

Heading morosely for the main launch bay on board the _Armageddon_, Mathias glumly considered his options. _Ditch it?_ Not possible. _Find Reinholdt?_ Dangerous. (Mathias inwardly frowned at using such a casual name to refer to a damn commissar, of all people) _Suicide?_ Warp with it, he'd end up doing that anyway. Nearing the flight deck, the Sergeant looked around for an open terminal or grease monkey that he could get directions from. _Techpriest...servitor...broken servitor...Guardsman...Guardsman...oh shi-_

Lady-Commissar Reinholdt (wearing a new commissar's sash) stood at attention with an honor guard of well-dressed Guardsmen behind her. As Mathias collapsed on a nearby bench to watch the spectacle, an unfamiliar lander was towed forward, its front ramp facing the grim Imperial official. One man left the lander, dressed for ground weather and unarmed - a stark contrast to the well-armed and hostile Guardsmen.

The man exchanged a few halting words with the Lady-Commissar, obviously unfamiliar with Low Gothic. The well-armed woman responded curtly, before spinning on her heel and heading towards the Techpriest near Mathias. As she drew near, her eyes widened in surprise at the familiar Guardsman slumped in the corner. "Sergeant!" Keen survival instincts overcoming his exhaustion, Mathias jumped to his feet and responded as loudly as he could. Ignoring his whisper-loud sound-off, Reinholdt quickly asked, "Where's the medbay? We need to see the VIP there."

_Oh, Emperor..._Mathias knew where the primary medbay was very, very well. He and his men had already fought off three separate armed attacks on the damn place, although he'd heard that the Imperial Hawks had taken over guarding it. The Sergeant also knew very well why an unfamiliar-looking man would be sent to the medbay under armed escort. Mathias soundlessly kissed his rack goodbye for another few hours, cursing that damn holo yet again. "This way."

* * *

**Primary medical wing, battleship _Armageddon_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 25, 998.M41**

_This is getting too damn familiar._

Private Walker of the Agrian Militia once again regained consciousness after a long blackout. His eyes slowly flickering open, the colonist tried to take in his surroundings: _med bay, at least_. He tried for a "Hello, is anyone there?" which came out as "mghmmmhl."

A too-familiar red-armored figure in the corner stirred at Walker's voice, the soldier quickly leaving the room as Walker worked his way back into consciousness. While the colonist was busy quietly freaking out over the skull-emblazoned candles on top of the medical equipment and the freakish painting in the corner, Jim Raynor quietly appeared at the door. "Hey. You busy?"

Walker waved the unfamiliar man over, freaking out again at the sight of the Koprulu Sector's most wanted criminal and that he'd just waved with a stump. "Um. Hi." Raynor, used to the response, merely grabbed a nearby chair and sat down facing the injured Agrian. "This seat taken?" The colonist shook his head mutely, while Raynor took the opportunity to study his surroundings.

Finally coming to a few internal conclusions, Walker asked, "S-sir, I'm not on a regular ship, am I?"

"Heh. What gave it away?"

Walker winced, before responding dryly, "The floating skull poking me with a needle kind of let me in on the secret."

Jim barked a short laugh. "Heh, yup. Private, I'm here to help you out a bit. These people...they don't really know what to do with you right now."

The Agrian felt his long-suppressed military instincts returning almost automatically: "Sir, what'd I do wrong?" Ass-covering and shameless groveling are universal traits, after all.

"Private, you lost an arm to an Ultralisk, then turned around and shot the bug dead with your off hand, with a gun that explodes a lot."

"Wait, it _explodes?_"

"Yeah, didn't you know? Look - these people see things a little differently than you. Those red-armored types? They're called Space Marines for some reason, live for centuries and spend the whole time fighting. These 'Imperials' look up to each of 'em like Superman."

"So?"

"Private, damn near everyone here's seen a holo of you holding up a Space Marine and using his plasmagun. They say you killed an Ultralisk, and that four Space Marines went to kill you and barely survived. Hell, the Marines themselves are calling you 'Techmarine' Walker, and they've been protecting you for the past few days. I know it's all rumors, but plenty of people believe them - they _want_ to believe it."

"Wait, why? Look, I'm just an old SCV driver who couldn't keep his mouth shut when the militia types came calling."

Raynor sighed. "Yeah, but these 'Imperials' are real scared right now. They came from another universe, we think, and they don't know how to get home. The general here's fighting some battle with the other brass in the fleet, and he wanted a role model to inspire his men. When that damn holo came out, he put you up on a pedestal. Raynor grinned at the Agrian's horrified face: "Tell me, Private - how's the life of fame and fortune treating you?"

* * *

**Armory, battlecruiser _Hyperion_**

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 25, 998.M41**

**Event + 6 days**

Rory Swann, Senior Chief of the _Hyperion_, watched as a collection of the new 'Imperials' walked cautiously into the main armory, weapons holstered but obviously on their toes._Bet those crazy techies wouldn't let 'em get close to this stuff normally_, Swann thought to himself. According to the translators, the Imperial's slang word for their red-robe techs translated roughly as a "cogboy," and Swann kinda liked the name.

"Arright everyone!" Swann yelled to his own people, orange-wearing grease monkeys straightening up all across the _Hyperion_'s armory. "Our guests today are some of the craziest S.O.B.s from a whole universe of batshit-eaters, and they're here to play with our toys. Your 'phones can translate most of that rock-grinding they call a language, so give 'em what they want and we don't get hurt!" His people chuckled, some fairly nervously.

Swann didn't blame them. Having outfitted the few Reapers that Raynor kept aboard the _Hyperion_, Swann had seen absolute murderous insanity up close and personal. These 'Imperials,' apparently from a nice little deathtrap world called 'Catachan,' made the psychotic Reapers look pretty normal. Hell, if the translator-shit was working right, apparently the only reason people lived on Catachan was to breed more stone-cold badasses! "The hell have you gotten us into this time, cowboy?" Swann muttered quietly to himself.

A tap on his shoulder made the short deck chief jump, quickly spinning around to see a 'Catachan' behind him. Tall, scarred, lean and bristling with wiry ripcord muscle, the man looked like he should belong on a Dominion Marine poster. "Damnit, boy, don't sneak up on a man like that!" Swann ordered gruffly. Inwardly, however, he was fairly impressed: decades spent in pitch-dark mines had given Swann a near-supernatural sense of hearing. _Bet he's done some sneaking around of his own_, Swann mused.

Swann's headset crackled. "This...thing. What it do?" The techs were a long way from making a good translator, so the two sides made do with single-word speak until then. Rory tapped the comm set the man was holding. "This? It's a Dominion-standard TD-396 comm set. Fifty klick broadcast radius at worst conditions, plenty more when ECM is down. Solar panel here, headset here. We nabbed a bunch from the Dominion a little while back, so there's more around somewhere."

"Fifty...how much?" The man looked shell-shocked. Swann roughly grabbed the comm set with the claw on his left arm, his hydraulic 'hand' quickly _clunk_ing around the fist-sized comm set. Swann knew from experience that the set could be held by resocc'ed Marines, and didn't worry about it breaking. "Alright, watch this." Quickly entering the command channel for the Agrian ground teams, Swann handed the device back to the Catachan soldier. "Here. Talk to your people on the ground, if you want. There's another crate of the things in the corner, number..." consulting his datapad, "...A65. Grey one, green stripes, over there in the corner. Take it if you want."

The man looked like a stranded fish. _Weirdos_, Swann thought sourly, before going back to work on a balky Banshee gunship.

...

Major Detgaryev of the Catachani 421st Regiment was in his personal Heaven. Detgaryev's few personal friends would be surprised by this, considering that the Major was almost completely irreligious. Detgaryev noticed none of this - he held his own Holy Grail. A comm set, small enough to fit in his gear and tough enough to stand up to abuse? Rechargeable, capable of ground-to-orbit communications? Simple, easy to use, and able to monitor multiple channels?

Forget the Emperor - Major Detgaryev had found his new God. He'd already thrown the comm set into a wall, pounded it with his rifle butt, and then picked it up and successfully turned it on (ignoring the shocked stares from nearby 'Terran' techpriests. Eh, cogboys - what'cha gonna do?). It had taken the Major less than a minute to understand most of its switches, and he was already monitoring the Imperial ground command channels, along with his Catachani regimental radio band. He'd easily stuffed it into one of his kit pouches, and simply holding the device under a nearby lumen had recharged it slightly. Cracking open crate A65 had shown Detgaryev the best sight of his life: enough comm sets to equip every man in his entire regiment.

No more backpack-sized sets, rationed out one by one to his company commanders! No more squinting through static, hoping for a single word to make it through the jungle! No more raiding enemies simply for power to recharge his radios!

The Mordian commanders might turn their nose at "heretical technology," but most of the Guard commanders in the 157th Fleet were common soldiers, promoted to their positions after the Trieste disaster. Give them a chance to get miracle radios like these, and the Guardsmen would snap them up in a second, keeping their old sets around just to appease the commissars and techpriests. Major Detgaryev turned his mind to one of the most important tasks of his life: grabbing every single one of these miracle radios before the other Guard commanders could get their paws on them.

* * *

**Three hours later**

Waving the last of his grease monkeys goodbye as the _Hyperion_'s main armory closed for the "night," Rory Swann spotted a new arrival waiting in the corner. Ignoring the shadow-shrouded man, the chief noncom of the "Hype" grabbed a small cooler that had been roughly shoved into the corner, dragging it out onto the deck and popping the top. As the other man came within a few meters of Swann, the short man turned and threw. "Catch."

Raynor grabbed the beer out of the air, seating himself on the cooler as Swann dragged over a nearby stool. The two men knew the ritual by heart, and each one quickly polished through their first beer without a word. Swann waited until they'd opened the second one before asking the question:

"So, cowboy, whadd'ya think?"

"I...I dunno."

"What? So they're crazy. What else is new?"

"Swann, I got a look at their history."

"...oh. That bad?"

"Worse. Worse than you could even imagine. They pull shit that makes Mengsk look like a saint, and I'm dead serious 'bout that, too. Genocide, torture, experiments like you wouldn't even believe. You seen a servitor yet?"

"Yeah, they showed me this ugly-looking robot. Looked like some idiot tried to put vat-grown flesh on a-"

"Swann, that isn't man-made."

"...holy shit! That was a _person_ once?"

"Yeah, that's about what I thought. First time I read through what they call normal, I wanted to kill every last one of 'em."

"But?"

"Swann, I don't know that we can judge 'em, really. We Terrans, we made our own monsters. Mengsk, the Confederacy, the UED, Kerrigan..." Raynor trailed off with a wince. "But the Imperials, they had Chaos."

"Which is?"

"Think voices in your head. Monsters that've lived since damn near the dawn of time that want to eat you for breakfast. Things that're literally from your own nightmares, working alongside your next-door neighbor to slice 'n dice your family into hamburger. The psychic had to show me some of his own memories to get home just how bad it is - said he wouldn't even dare that much in their old 'verse, that the demons might find him. Looked dead serious about it too."

"Damn." The two men finished their beers in unison, Raynor popping the cap of the next one with practiced ease while Swann wrenched the top with his prosthetic arm. They drank silently for another minute, each trying to come to grips with the new arrivals.

Swann scratched his head, breaking the moment. "Look, cowboy, I ain't no fill-so-fur," he began, drawling the words out like a stereotypical Rimworlder hick. "Still, we gotta call it by what we see. These Imperials might be bad, but they're still human, and right now we got ourselves a little bug cleaning to do." Raynor laughed lightly, trying not to think about his role in the Zerg. Swann cut off his boss's self-pity sharply: "Cowboy, out here things are bad enough that even the Dominion beats the alternative. If Mengsk brought his 'cruisers and Marines up here to actually _fight_ the Zerg, I'd cheer the bastard on myself."

Raynor nodded. "I don't like it. I don't like compromising, I don't want to work with these murdering bastards. Mengsk is backstabbing scum, but the Imperials could show him plenty about plain meanness. They-" Swann interrupted Raynor with a wave of his claw, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. They're bastards, but they're _human_ bastards. Don't forget that."

The chief armorer chugged his beer, let out a massive belch, and left Raynor with a cooler of booze and Swann's answer to his unasked question.

* * *

**Starport, near Lark's Crossing**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 25, 998.M41**

**Event + 6 days**

Tychus Findley, badass extraordinaire, was officially im-fucking-pressed by these Imperials.

Sure, their armor was shit and the less said about their piddly laser weapons, the better. Still, Tychus hadn't gotten all tech-heady like Raynor seemed to be - _fartin' around with a fancy battlecruiser? THAT same Raynor?_ Tychus appreciated good morale and discipline when he saw it, and these Imperials had it in spades. Those crazy bastards walked straight into Hell, using their laser guns to make a wall of rounds downrange as they marched towards the Zerg. With language and about twenty other problems keeping them from working together too well, the Imperials and Agrians (and some Raiders) had cautiously deployed together: an armored Terran Marine marched at each side of the Imperial's ten-man blocks of soldiers.

His Impaler scything a bloody harvest of Zerglings, Findley chuckled and chewed his ever-present cigar as his assigned team kept moving forward. "Yup, each and every one of these bastards with armor and a real gun..." The psychotic Marine smiled as they continued to advance, lost in dreams of Zerg-smashing. _The anvil is fan-fucking-tastic - now for the hammer._

...

**THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!**

Fireteam 1, 2nd Squad, Raynor's Raiders hit dirt hard. Launched from a dropship at twenty feet up, the four men smacked down and rolled as one. As the Marines standing up together, John slower than the others because of his Marauder suit, "The Big 1" blinked HUDs into position and entered the fray.

Most Terran Marines were resocialized criminals, sent out more as cannon fodder than as true soldiers. Given rudimentary training and aggression inhibitors, they were swarmed by Zerg forms as they struggled to maintain fire discipline, let alone maneuver together.

Raynor's Raiders were a different story. Drilled constantly by Raynor and well-armed and well-trained by Rory Swann, each Marine operated seamlessly as part of a greater whole. With each squad's Virtual Intelligence (VI) coordinating fire lanes, the men of the Raiders operated together like a psychotic, bloodstained jigsaw puzzle.

Davorin's Impaler bullets bisected a Zergling leaping for Tiep in Fireteam 2, while John's concussive grenades smacked into a faraway Hydra and detonated. Taking point, Davorin handled nearby enemies, while John launched standard Marauder-issue grenades at medium-range targets. Vlad handled anti-air work, while Irving's long-barreled Impaler sniped faraway targets. 2nd Squad's three fireteams operated similarly, the twelve men walking forward in a formation dubbed the "Iron Curtain."

The men advanced silently, broadcasting nothing except telemetry data over the squad band. Visors down and vision consumed by their HUDs, the Raiders advanced like machines, their enemies appearing as red-highlighted outines instead of creatures. There was time enough to talk after the fight. Right now, it was past time to go bug-hunting.

With Imperials advancing from the unconquered Starport and air-dropped Raiders smashing the Zerg from behind, the alien advance was ground to pieces. Although the Imperials were too inexperienced to aim for Overlords, the Raiders took special care to kill the floating controllers and deprive the local Zerg of any real brains. Boots, both groxhide and armored, _thud_ded across the ichor-soaked plain as the hammer finally reached the anvil and destroyed the last Zerg in the area. Fire controls kept the Terrans from firing on each other, their shouts and occasional smacks to the head making the Imperials do the same.

Smoke and dirt drifted across the battlefield as the last sounds of combat died out, the inhuman snarls of Zerglings fading under the **brakatabraka** of Impalers and _crack-crack-crack_ of massed lasgun fire. The smoke slowly cleared under the low wind, revealing armored shapes moving through the gloom. Steam hissed from red-hot Impalers and lasgun clips, the only other sounds the _squish_ of boots on Zerg corpses and the breathing of recently blooded men.

Stepping forward over a small hillock of Hydralisk corpses, Findley chuckled and opened his visor, letting out a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Hell, that was fun. Wanna do it again?"


	13. Steel Tide

_My muse is a fickle bitch, with a fondness for dick jokes. However, for some reason I got possessed to write yet another story AND to add another chapter to this one. Whaddahell. Oh well, hope you all like it! Comments and criticism appreciated, as always._

* * *

**Starport, near Lark's Crossing**

**Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 27, 998.M41****Event + 8 days**

"That is the ugliest tank I have _ever_laid eyes on."

It was indeed, as some might put it, a kludge of a tank. Guns jutting out from the hull, a squat turret with blocky armor on either side, fully exposed treads around the hull - it was an ugly duckling of a weapon. The two Terran siege tankers continued to mock the Imperial vehicle's inelegant design, even as the Imperial crew stared at the much larger and sleeker Terran Crucio siege tank.

A rumbling voice interrupted the tankers' diatribe: "S'cuse me." Both Terrans looked behind them, each one seeing a massive gauntlet in front of their faces. **WHACK!** Holding the two dazed crewmen up, Tychus Findley pointed them at the Imperial vehicle. "You fellas need to learn some manners." Dropping the dazed Terrans in a heap, Findley slowly walked over to the Leman Russ battle tank, eyeing it the entire way.

"This? This here's a bug-squisher. A flamethrower up front, two heavy MGs on each side, and heavy treads - hell, I want to see this go!" The Imperial crewmen, understanding Findley's tone if not his language, gave mock Terran salutes as they started their engine. Tychus returned the favor as the Leman Russ roared to life, before turning and pointing an armored finger at the two stunned siege tankers. "Boys, your Crucios will be nice to have around, but I prefer my Zerg squished flat instead 'a shot up from ten miles away. Watch these fellas go - you might learn a thing or two."

* * *

Adamus the Techpriest resisted the urge to oil himself uncontrollably, but it was a close call.

The servant of the Machine Cult stared up at the Terran machines busy near the frontlines. The massive rockcrete bunker had appeared almost miraculously above the untamed land surrounding the spaceport, two of the strange "SCVs" working over the domed structure. The building and its builders seemed almost like the fabled Standard Construct Templates from the Dark Age of Technology, but…

Adamus watched in stunned amazement as one SCV roughly grabbed an old-fashioned silicon circuit board from a small unit on its back. _Did it just…_The Techpriest's augmented eyes refocused, recording the miracle for the other members of the Explorator Fleet to see. These SCVs were _making_ basic circuits, with nothing but a miniature fabricator!

It was the Omnissiah's Blessing made metal. Truly, He worked in mysterious ways!

* * *

Yreth the Cerebrate was worried. Actually, scratch that - Yreth was terrified. Terrans with Protoss-like technology? Terrans with psychics? Terrans with psychics that could see his every move? The one glancing brush that Yreth had felt with the enemy psychic had left him weak-kneed (metaphorically, although a nearby Ultralisk had shivered until it had broken a leg). That Presence was old and dangerous – Father was a short-lived flyspeck next to that ancient intelligence.

The Cerebrate knew perfectly well that he was outbid right now: unless he could change things immediately, he'd have to fold. This wasn't the good old days, when Father would be there to take care of his children who fell. The Queen had killed the Cerebrate's brothers, and Yreth knew that Kerrigan would let him die out here unless he found a reason for her to ante up.

Zerg across the planet changed course, the besieged defenders at Planetfall Point staring in amazement at the massive Zerg host running away. Brown tendrils across the green planet turned abruptly, the uncountable Zerg swarms changing course and heading away from the few points of resistance left on the planet. Viewed from orbit, the effect was a horrifying sight, as the fertile world _shifted_ under the Zerg forms moving on it. Every Zerg, whether on the surface or in orbit, was moving towards a single grey dot of human construction.

The dot moved.

* * *

As the go-order went out, the few Terrans still on-site manned their positions without a word. Siege tanks dropped their stabilizers, the massive guns unfolding as they sacrificed mobility for humbling amounts of firepower. Suited-up infantrymen moved to reserve positions, the armored men ready to support the strange "Imperials" manning the frontline. Drones soared through the empty skies, pre-sighting the artillery and mapping the terrain, while several Hercules freighters roared away from the still-functioning spaceport. A lone Terran battlecruiser hung silently over the starport, weapons primed and engines warm.

The spaceport and its defenses might be mostly Terran-made, but Imperial soldiers manned them. The dour men worked in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. Every man had survived Trieste – but somehow Trieste had found them again. Most of the priests and commissars normally attached to the Trieste 3rd Regiment had "accidently" been delayed, lest they interfere with the Terran's heretical machines.

A single black-clad figure broke the silence. Lady-Commissar Reinholdt strode along the defensive lines, a squad of Catachani soldiers following her. She said little, offering a few words of encouragement and leading prayers for those who asked for them. The commissar gave no threats and made no promises of death, since the situation on the ground made it unnecessary. There were no ships still berthed at the starport, and nowhere planetside to run from the bugs. The survivors of Trieste took the commissar's few words of encouragement and faced the storm.

The Imperial Guardsmen of the Trieste 3rd manning the line could feel the swarm before they saw it. It was a slow, rumbling earthquake that made the ground quiver under its force. The swarm had a physical _presence_, the organic hurricane larger than the sum of its parts. The soldiers could feel its arrival in the ground, see its approach in the darkening sun, and know their doom in the haunted eyes of their comrades. Death was coming, and he was literally louder than hell.

The Zerg swarm descended on the Starport at Lark's Crossing. Mutalisk flights blotted out the sun, the Zerglings below overshadowed by the flyer's leathery wings. Overlords flew silently above, swollen to bursting with ground forms and ready to drop. A carpet of brown chitin covered the green planet's grass, Hydralisks dotted liberally among the ever-present Zerglings. Scourge flights soared high above the Mutalisk packs, while Guardians and Devourers advanced in a slow, deadly silence.

The unstoppable force hit the immovable wall: a kilometers-deep Terran defense line. Rockcrete works funneled the grounded Zerg into giant killzones, pre-sighted siege artillery destroying packs of Zerg at a time. Robotic missile turrets fired their payloads as fast as they cycled, the normally self-guided missiles replaced with a simpler and cheaper "dumb" rocket. There were so many Zerg forms in the sky that it was literally impossible to miss.

Bunkers staffed by Imperial Guardsmen opened up, the embattled men manning the emplaced heavy weapons in the structures. Zerglings hissed and shattered under the Impaler spikes, the shells still hot from the armory fabbers as the Guardsmen slammed them into place. The air filled with the stink of gun oil and death, the _roar_ of high-speed Impaler fire overwhelming the senses. The sky darkened from the Mutalisk flocks flying overhead, the men below fighting in an unnatural shadow. The besieged starport was surrounded in a storm of red, the _Hyperion_ still hovering above it like a guardian angel.

The swarm swept on over its own piles of dead, the mindless Zerg hordes literally beyond counting. Thousands of bio-forms died in the opening salvo, millions in the ones to follow. It was slaughter on an unimaginable scale, bloodletting beyond comprehension. It was apocalypse, now.

And to the men of the Trieste Guard regiments, it felt like...home.

* * *

_Thump-thump. _The calm had finally arrived, and Reinholdt welcomed it gladly. She ducked a scything claw, her chainsword carving a bloody streak out of the strangely-named "hydralisk" before a lasgun blast from one of her Catachani comrades killed the creature.

_Thump-thump. _Shapes and shadows writhed in the darkness, as man fought monster for a hunk of rockcrete. This bunker's fabber had quit, and they'd run out of spikes in under a minute as the emplaced weapons chewed through the stockpiles. The Terrans were outside in their armor, working to keep the bugs away, but inside was a different story. Flak armor met claw and steel cracked chitin as the humans fought for their most fundamental privilege – survival.

_Thump-thump. _The commissar's pistol _crack_ed its muted thunder as Reinholdt blocked a firing slit with Zergling corpses. Another chainsword swipe produced another dead Zergling, while a Catachan Fang sliced through the eye of an armored Roach.

_Thump-thump. _The sound was literally unbelievable. Over forty men, screaming and cursing and praying and fighting as their numbers steadily decreased. Nearly a hundred Zerg, snarling and hissing and ripping and tearing as they died and were replaced. Impalers roaring outside, their thunder eclipsed by the Zerg-quake and the **crash** of siege rounds tearing bloody chunks from the tidal wave outside.

_Thump-thump. _Stab. Pull back. Block. Shoot. Stab. Swipe. Shoot. Pull back. She was beyond thought, beyond emotion, and far past rationality._ Thump-thump_. Reinholdt halted her chainsword's downstroke, barely recognizing the man underneath the Zerg guts that covered him. _Thump-thump._ Building clear.

_Thump-thump._ Her heart rate increasing steadily, Reinholdt grimaced as she felt herself coming out of the calm. The survivors were already running to their stations, re-sighting weapons and dragging in crates of newly-forged spikes to fire. Less than fifty yards away, another bunker became swamped as the crossfire slackened. _Thump-thump_. The Commissar could feel the armored Terrans on the bunker's roof stomping towards the other bunker, Impalers roaring.

_Thump-thump._ She revved her chainsword, the snarl audible even in the hurricane of battle. The Catachani looked to her, and she gestured at the nearby bunker that was already being breached. They jumped through the forward firing slits, their war cries lost in the maelstrom of battle. _Thump-thump_. The black-clad commissar and ten (formerly twelve) Catachan men ran across the killing zone, the Zerg blasted by Impaler fire before they could reach the small group. _Thump-thump._ They charged up the steps of the breached bunker, chainswords growling and knives slicing through Zerg bio-forms.

_Thump-thump._ Her laspistol dropping another Zergling, Reinholdt smiled as she felt the calm return.

* * *

"How the hell are they surviving down there?"

Raynor could understand why Matt Horner might ask that question. Even only a mile up, they could barely see the starport under the Zerg forms below. _Still_, Raynor reminded himself, _Matt's a Navy man, through and through_.

"These men aren't soldiers like we think of them. They're conscripts in name only - the best of a planet's armies, lumped together. At least, they _were_." Raynor grimaced. "What you're looking at is the remnant of an army one hundred times larger originally when it arrived at a place called 'Trieste.'" The _Hyperion_'s bridge erupted in murmurs.

Evans, one of the long-term spacers they'd picked up off a broken freighter, spoke up. "So, what, they shaved off a little bit of an army? Where's everyone else?"

"Dead."

More gasps, more murmurs. Raynor impatiently waved them silent before speaking again: "These Imperials would call a shit-show like Tarsonis a 'minor setback.' Trieste was, in their words, a 'calamity.'" He straightened up. "Now, what this means for us is that every man jack over there is both very good and very, _very_ lucky."

The more prosperous former spacers grinned at their commander's foible, but others remained grimly silent, sharing Raynor's sentiment. A light infantryman at heart, Raynor was intimately familiar with luck. The last-minute dodge which got you out of trouble, the split-second twitch which made your aim true, the subtle neck-chill when something primal inside sensed that you were under a hunter's gaze - he'd felt them all.

Those men were lucky, and with the Imperial Navy's help they would even survive. "Matt, call 'em in. Let's get out of here."

As the _Hyperion_ turned to leave, a thirteen-kilometer-long cathedral dropped into low orbit over the starport. Lance batteries glowed white-hot, while building-sized guns swiveled to point at the Zerg swarm below. The _Armageddon_'s temperamental lance batteries had earned her the nickname _The Finicky Bitch_, but an exhaustive weeklong effort had brought them online just in time.

The _Bitch_ was here, and she was pissed.

* * *

The _Armageddon_ dwarfed the Terran battlecruiser below, the _Hyperion_ still holding position above the starport while the Imperial ship hovered several kilometers higher. With the Zerg in the trap, Horner ordered the _Hyperion_ to accelerate out of the killzone. The 1-kilometer-long ship slowly accelerated away, her crew still at action stations and damage control teams ready.

It was the only thing that saved her.

A massive **BOOM** echoed throughout the ship, any personnel not strapped in sent sprawling from the impact. Klaxons blared and teams rushed to seal the breach as the battlecruiser shuddered in midair.

The bridge was a hotpoint of ordered chaos. Bridge crewmen yelled for updates while others rushed to new stations. Sparks flew from damaged equipment, while a power-armored Marine helped put out a sudden electrical fire in the corner. Matt Horner and Jim Raynor stood stock-still, twin rocks of stability in the sea of chaos. Raynor glanced at the damage control display, trying to see the impact point.

"Matt, situation."

Matt Horner's face was creased in concentration and worry. The _Hyperion_ was his baby, and someone was trying to kill her. "Impact topside, sir. Nearly hit the starboard fuel tank, but we sealed it off." He paused. "Sir, we can't take another hit like that."

Raynor ran through the situation in his head. "The shot must've come from the Imperial ship. They trying to kill us?"

"Possibly, sir. The shot hit us amidships, and we're out of their fire lanes, so they're probably shooting to kill."

"Shit," Raynor cursed, trying to figure out what was going on. "They don't all want us dead – but one person does. Can we jump?"

"No, sir. Without a plan and some prep time, we'd just tear ourselves to shreds."

"Alright, then, can we trace the shot that hit us?"

"Yessir. It's a low-powered laser shot, from the right side battery."

Raynor considered what to do. Whether the gun captain was acting under orders or on his own, he'd be able to kill the _Hyperion_ if he got time to shoot again. "Helm, turn us around."

Horner stared at Raynor in astonishment. "Sir? The Zerg are _behind_ us, remember?"

Raynor grimaced. "I know. At this range, with us at the bottom of the gravity well, that ship could kill us any time it wanted to. They want to assassinate us quietly, so twenty creds says the port side batteries will avoid firing on us."

Matt shook his head. "Sir…"

"My call, Matt. Take us in, full speed."

The _Hyperion_ banked suddenly, roaring under the larger _Armageddon_ while lance-fire from a single cannon stabbed impotently where the Terran ship had just been. The battlecruiser roared through the atmosphere, barely dodging the wall of fire that the _Armageddon_ was pouring from above.

Zerg forms rose to follow the Terran ship, and the _Hyperion's_ laser batteries answered in kind. Coherent light smashed Mutalisks and Scourges into falling meat, while Zerg acid dug holes in the Hype's battered neosteel. The battlecruiser plunged through the Zerg hurricane, with lance shots deliberately bracketing the Terran ship. The _Armageddon_'s port-side gunners carefully timed their shots, aiding their fellow humans below and unknowingly disobeying their superior officer's wishes.

The swarm of Zerg parted momentarily to let out a single grey shape that shot for the skies. She was battered, smoking, and leaking fuel. Her armor was scratched and scarred from stem to stern, and Zerg corpses were strewn haphazardly across her upper decks. She'd been through hell, and come out the other side.

The _Hype_ had lived to fight another day.

* * *

Lady-Commissar Reinholdt spared a glance at the retreating Terran ship above. Its charge into the heart of the swarm had been near-suicide…but then again, it'd also lived. _Good for them, then._

Its charge had also given them an opportunity. The heavyset woman tapped her vox-bead, surprised that the small machine was still working after the fight. "Roll armor, repeat, roll armor."

She knew when her orders had been received. The ground, still shaking from the Zerg storm and the constant lance strikes, began to shudder under a new thunder. It was a constant rumble, which jarred teeth and shook the mind. The dispersed Zerg were the first to see the thunder, and didn't possess enough brainpower to be frightened of it before it ended them. The beleaguered defenders of Lark's Crossing saw the thunder, and cheered as their salvation rolled by on heavy treads. Yreth the Cerebrate saw the thunder, and feared.

The bug-squishers had come. Battle cannons belched fire and fury, ripping groups of Zerg to shreds as the creatures swarmed forward. Flamethrowers bathed Zerglings in a hellish light, heavy bolters shredding Hydralisks as the tanks rolled on. Baneblades led the spearhead, their eleven guns ripping holes in the already-decimated Zerg swarm. Leman Russ tanks followed on the super-heavies' heels, the ugly ducklings shifting to a line formation as they cleared the defenses. Hellhounds, Sentinels, Chimeras, and the odd Siege Tank followed the heavy armor, shredding any remnants left behind by the unstoppable advance. Zerg forces that tried to regroup found themselves under bombardment, surgical lance strikes eliminating pockets of resistance before they could even form, while Marauder bombers flying from the fleet's _Dictator_-class cruisers pounded the Zerg still packed too tightly to move.

It was a steel tide, a wave of armor that brushed aside all resistance. The _Bitch_ kept position above the Baneblade tanks, her lance batteries reaching across continents to smash the Zerg growths across the planet. Banshee flyers from the _Hyperion_ and the Agrian Militia provided close support, shredding Zergling packs and hunting down Ultralisks that tried to burrow. The wave washed across field and forest, valley and mountain, losing its power but keeping its momentum.

Tychus Findley, the Trieste 5th Armored's unofficial mascot, wept unashamedly as the _Cuddly Barracuda_'s Baneblade cannon fired again. Ten Hydralisks ceased to exist, the Roaches nearby sent flying by the impact. As the advance continued unabated, the hard-bitten marine sobbed for joy.

"So…fucking…beautiful!"


	14. Sparks

**Bridge, battlecruiser **_**Hyperion**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

Jim Raynor still wasn't sure how Matt Horner managed to make "We need to talk" sound like a death threat. _Perhaps it came with the captain's bars_.

He sighed slowly, dreading this conversation. "Matt-"

"No!" Raynor exhaled again: the _Hyperion_ was Matt's girl, and his girl had gotten real shot up yesterday. "Jim, our 'allies' just fucking tried to kill us!"

"No, Matt, _some_ of our 'allies' tried to kill us. We wouldn't have made it through the swarm if they hadn't helped."

"And if they hadn't been trying to _murder us all_ we wouldn't have had to fly _towards_ the Zerg in the first place!"

Seeing the _Hype_'s bridge crew giving worried glances at their quarreling superior officers, Raynor decided to move the conversation elsewhere. Pointing his thumb at the exit, he ordered, "Armory. Now. We'll talk with Swann."

* * *

**Armory, battlecruiser **_**Hyperion**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

"So," Swann breezily began, "let's recap, shall we?" Ignoring the simultaneous death glares from Raynor and Horner, Swann held up a finger: "We've got a bunch of crazy humans with crazy weapons, crazy shields, a crazy religion, and did I mention the crazy yet?"

Another finger. "Some of these crazy humans actually like us. The ground-pounders drool on my boots whenever they show up here, and the cogboys," he glanced at Raynor and Horner, seeing their incomprehension, "the ones with red robes and a gear fetish, they'd drool on my boots too if they hadn't upgraded from spit to machine oil. Anyhoo, those folks love us and the monsters in the green-white armor seem to like us too."

Another finger. "The crazy priests and the ones with the funny hats seem to hate our guts. Ditto for the flyboys, I dunno why. In fact, considering that a couple flyboys from that big floating cathedral just tried to _murder our asses_, cowboy, I'd say they really want us dead."

Another finger. "These crazy people seem to be real sure about bug-killing, which I got no issue with. Problem is, some of 'em are warming to the idea of _us_-killing, too, and I ain't so sure 'bout that. I keep hearing somethin' bout bad religion-stuff over the translators, but we haven't worked it all out yet."

Another finger. "Then there's that damn holo they fight about, the one with Walker the crazy Agrian and some red-armored crazy being buddies. I swear to ya, cowboy, we've had to break up a couple fights over _here_, of all places, when one of our new visitors breaks out the damn thing. It's a symbol, and so's Walker himself."

Another finger. "So, we've got the 'bad new humans' crazies trying to kill the 'yay new humans!' crazies. Cowboy, with how well-armed they all are, I'll bet you my claw there'll be a big crazy damn fight over this. I'd go on, but I'm out of fingers."

Raynor sighed, kneading his forehead. "Look, Matt, I-" He was cut off by the comm at his belt. Jim picked it up, feeling particularly put on today. "Raynor here. What's up?"

"Sir, we've got a situation."

* * *

**Freighter **_**Ship for Brains**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

"Primary objective: Ensure asset security from hostile agents."

**Thud.**

"Secondary, uh, secondary objective: Secure asset for extraction at useful age."

**Thud.**

"Tertiary objective: Ensure agent anonymity and safety- aah fuckit, too late for that now."

Father Jeffries, still wearing his clerical collar, sprinted through the _Hercules_-class freighter. His left hand clutched a holdout gun, useless against the threats he faced now. The priest's right hand kept his guts inside his body, a red stain spreading steadily across his white cassock.

**Thud.**

Civilians scattered from the priest's way, a faraway klaxon blaring as Jeffries' pursuers came closer. The priest ignored shouts and questions hurled his way, jumping through a hatch and slapping the "Emergency Shut" controls. Knowing what would happen next, Jeffries ducked away and sprinted down the corridor as fast as his wounds would let him.

"Primary objective: Ensure asset security from hostile a-"

**Thud.**

The recently-closed hatch burst open as a metal fist batted the atmospheric seal aside like paper. A green-white monster stepped through the human-sized hatch, bending and warping the weak civilian-grade neosteel of the bulkheads. A similar figure followed, helmet off and carrying a crackling staff.

Jeffries checked his nav system, the fist-sized device showing his location relative to the asset's position. Not for the first time, Jeffries cursed the asset's tiny size: had it been larger, he could've pursued and apprehended it before these "Imperials" showed up to cause trouble.

"Secondary objective: Secure asset for retrieval at a useful age – hell, I'll take _any_ age right now."

**Thud.**

Another hatch, another two-second delay. Jeffries ignored it, knowing he didn't stand a chance against these monsters. Skidding around a corner, the priest – _it was a nice identity to live, while it lasted_ – sprinted down a long corridor and threw himself one-handed through another hatch. A bolt flew past his head, missing by inches and detonating harmlessly farther down the corridor.

In a familiar pattern, the priest's hand flipped the cover off of the failsafe trigger on the back of his nav system, and his mouth silently formed the words that he dreaded to say:

"Primary objective: Ensure asset security from hostile agents. Terminate if necessary."

* * *

Stella Waters had learned a lot since the Bad Thing had happened. Being hungry wasn't nice. Herky-bird freighters were cold if you didn't have a bed. You could crawl through the vents if you were careful and quiet.

And people really didn't like it if she _talked_ to them, but she could get them to get her some food if she just _whispered_ real quiet-like. Stella didn't like to do it 'cuz Mommy and Daddy said she shouldn't, but Mommy and Daddy weren't here anymore. She tried not to think about it, but she couldn't stop thinking about Daddy and-

Stella quickly stuffed her fist in her mouth, biting down to keep from making too much noise. Her right hand already sported teeth marks, mementos from previous breakdowns. She couldn't hear anyone coming, but if she _listened_ properly, she could sense angry grownups thumping around outside. One of them sounded like Father Jeffries from the scary-church where Jesus's heart was on fire. He used to _talk_ like everyone else, but he'd become silent when Stella turned seven, and didn't _talk_ right anymore. Stella listened real close, and thought she could hear him whispering, but she didn't listen too close. They didn't sound like nice thoughts. Jeffries was running around through the ship, and the other…

Stella instinctively drew away from the _other_. He was scary, full of faith and fire and fury, and Stella knew she'd get burned if she stayed too close, like that time when she put her hand on the hot stove and Mommy- she bit down on her hand again to dispel the memory.

Scooting through the Herky-bird's air ducts, Stella wriggled away from the silent preacher and the burning _other_. Quiet time in a cold corner didn't sound so bad right now.

* * *

Librarian Marcellus was annoyed.

As most denizens of a Warp-filled universe instinctively knew, an angry and powerful psyker was slightly more dangerous than most natural disasters, and often caused more property damage. A _Space Marine_ psyker, with all the physical stamina and centuries of mental discipline that implied, could be an apocalyptic problem.

**Thud.**

As previously stated, Librarian Marcellus was only annoyed. This meant that the neosteel bulkheads in his way 'merely' went flying ten meters, instead of ripping open the side of the ship. Pounding through the cramped ship, the Librarian caught a pauldron on a low-handing duct before ripping his arm free and continuing forward.

Not for the first time, Marcellus cursed the too-small ship and its human dimensions. Had they been on a properly Marine-sized ship, the Librarian could have broke into a run and caught the elusive enemy agent already. As it stood, the massive Astartes was slowed to a crawl by the too-low ceilings and tiny pressure hatches, obstacles rupturing and breaking as the Marine forced his way through. Lightning arced from the Librarian's form, unnaturally running along the bulkheads and arcing over impossible gaps. The two Mentors following Marcellus, one a psyker himself, held themselves back from the Librarian's thunderous form.

**Thud.**

As the next hatch flew away from the Marines' path, Marcellus sniffed the air, the motion gathering the psyker-_smells_ out of the local "Warp." He could smell the iron fear-stink hovering around the civilians, mixed with anger and curiosity and everything that a human should _smell_ like. The Librarian ignored these scents, concentrating instead on the elusive dust-dry smell of his target. The enemy agent was almost impossible to recognize, his psychic footprint unnaturally light and difficult to track. Something was shielding him, somehow; had he ever gambled over anything but killing foes, Marcellus would bet money on it being technology-based. Even with training, it was difficult to conceal one's psychic print with mental discipline alone. Emperor knew, Marcellus had tried it often enough against the damned Tzeentchian cultists with little to show for it.

No, this human enemy had a method of shielding himself that went beyond known Imperial methods, which made capturing him important enough as is. More critical for Marcellus, however, was the one word he'd _heard_ from the enemy agent: "asset." This agent knew something about the young psyker aboard the ship, and the Librarian would not stop until he'd found it.

**Thud.**

Young psykers were a constant worry for Imperial authorities. Unless properly controlled or executed, they could wreak untold havoc if (not if, _when_) possessed by a daemon or seduced by Chaos. Marcellus hunted untrained psykers whenever possible, having prevented several Warp-gates and recruited several young Mentors by doing so. He would not stop until this one was found.

**Thud.**

Another physical obstacle, another psychic explosion. This one was powerful enough to make the deckplates buckle slightly. Stepping through the smoking ruin, the Librarian found himself becoming mildly angry.

* * *

**Bridge, battleship **_**Armageddon**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

The primary command throne of the _Armageddon_ remained dark and shadowed, its occupant similarly hidden and unknown. Fearful and superstitious crewmen talked of the Admiral in hushed whispers, calling him a mutant, or – far worse- a Warp-daemon in human guise. After all, he seemed to _relax_, of all things, when the mighty battleship engaged her Gellar drive and jumped into the maelstrom!

Other crewmen hissed at the gossipers, driving them to silence while glancing over their shoulders. As anyone with a grain of common sense had quickly learned, the Admiral ran a tight ship – he had a fearsome spy network that extended over the entire Entente Sector Fleet before said Fleet had arrived at Trieste. The Admiral's control was much weaker over the 157th Fleet, formed from the remnants of the Trieste debacle, but the _Armageddon_ was his personal fiefdom and run as such. No matter the officer's frequently dubious decisions, no one on board dared raise more than a whisper in protest.

Currently, however, the Admiral's attention was focused beyond 'his' battleship, beyond the 157th Fleet and beyond the planet and its unfortunately independent armies below. Instead, the Imperial Navy officer's laser-like gaze was zeroed in on a much smaller target, serenely orbiting near Agria's upper atmosphere.

The Admiral's lips drew back in a feral snarl. "_Hyperion_."

Within a single week, the damn pack of traitors and heretics had sunk their hooks deep into the fleet – _his_ Fleet! Imperial Guards officers (and, most shamefully, many good Navy men as well) were clamoring to "inspect" the wonder ship, and presumably to pillage the techno-heresies inside. A quick flick of his wrist brought up a report from the _Beneficent_, one of the fleet's _Dictator_-class fleet carriers; the officer's report was seemingly dry but obviously panicked if one recognized the signs.

_Beneficent's_ captain had published some excerpts from his lower-decks spy reports, with several parts highlighted; the Admiral read through them with a leaden feeling in his gut. Apparently, the Catachani aboard the _Beneficent_ had disposed of most of their radios, the large sets piling up in hidden compartments that the deviant deathworlders had likely thought were free from prying eyes. Their radio specialists now sported small, strange radios of an unknown make, not coincidentally after the Catachani delegation had visited that devil-ship.

Another flick of the wrist, and several more screens superimposed themselves over the Admiral's vision. The sheer numbers of missives from the normally quiet Mechanicus representatives had nearly overwhelmed his comms officers, and his pale and shaking adjutant had given his commander a few excerpts from the pile. The elusive cogboys were normally silent, preferring to communicate in the noosphere, but apparently every single red-robed individual in the Fleet had decided to message its commander.

Some messages were frantic, properly decrying the techno-heresies that were far too close to loyal Imperial ships for comfort. Others asserted the Mechanicum's claim to anything mechanical, while others simply urged caution when dealing with strange outsiders with apparently miraculous technology.

Other messages, however, either verged on heresy or merrily danced through it while painting bullseyes for puritan Inquisitors. Many messages – far too many – declared the _Hyperion_ the technical find of the millennium, while others urged action to immediately seize the "ship of wonders" (apparently even Techpriests could give into hyperbole) and its miraculous contents. Several messages even recommended this mere technician "Rory Swanne" for sainthood under the Omnissiah's eyes for his innovative new ideas! The Admiral's withered hands clenched the arms of his command throne with an iron grip, his teeth clenching in rage at the mere thought.

Intellectually, he'd always known that the Techpriests of a Deep-range Explorator Fleet were techno-heretics sent away to innovate far from Imperial oversight, and that their insane ideas might infect his Fleet slightly. Yet the potent combination of these Terrans and the Techpriests' own ideas was potentially explosive, so much that the Admiral's chief priest had included the Explorator Ships as among those needing purging.

Almost unbidden, the Navy officer's hands danced over the interfaces embedded within his command throne, bringing up that damn holo once again. At heart, it was a simple sight: a one-handed Terran Marine and a limping Space Marine, each holding the other up and using their opposite's own weapon, standing tall amid a sea of filthy xenos. Despite himself, the Admiral felt a grudging appreciation for the holopict and its near-automatic veracity. The flaws in its execution: the rushed and slightly blurry pict itself, the chaos at the edges, even its off-center orientation and excess bloom said "this is real" in a way that no words could accurately convey. His own propaganda department likely couldn't have staged it better. It had split the fleet down the middle, dividing Radicals from Loyalists – some had even begun to describe themselves by their new titles.

This would never have kept up in a proper Sector Fleet, or even one on campaign. Discipline was, as always, extremely tight in the Imperial military. The first sign of disobedience would have seen the offending ships checked, investigated, and purged of undesirables within weeks. Although the ship's firepower would be drastically lessened by a complete lower-decks purge, and although the security forces would be stretched to kill every lower-decks menial quickly enough, the resulting discipline was always seen as worth the cost. Even now, the Admiral wished dearly that he could simply order his uncorrupted Naval Security troops to clear out the rabble.

The 157th Fleet could not afford that cost. The ever-effective escort squadrons had already encountered vacuum-capable "Zerg" bioforms, and the escort ships had quickly destroyed these targets with the fury borne out of the losses at Trieste. There would be more, though – there were always more. Every ship in the fleet was already under strength due to previous losses, and if the Navigators were correct then there were no loyal Imperial worlds nearby to get new menials at – none in the entire galaxy, in fact. They were alone, surrounded by xenos and heretics, and now the heretics' most potent weapon had bypassed defense guns and void shields and adamantium armor to strike at the Fleet's most vulnerable target – the ever-fallible hearts and minds of its human crew.

They needed a spark. The Admiral's lips pursed as he contemplated the situation: much as he wished to simply order an alpha strike against the _Hyperion_, he could not risk a full-blown revolt by ordering the _Armageddon_'s lance batteries to take the insignificant "battlecruiser" under their fire. He'd carefully planned the previous attempt, organizing the defense of Agria in such a way that the thrice-damned _Hyperion_ was under his battleship's guns in the swirling Zerg swarm. He'd quietly given the sealed orders to one of his most loyal and effective lance batteries, and watched as they had followed his instructions to the letter – and failed.

Grinding his teeth in fury, the Admiral quickly regained control over himself. He'd failed before, after all, when he'd brought the entire Entente Sector Fleet to bear against the Tyranids at Trieste, and watched as his Fleet fell prey to uncountable swarms of foes. The fleet - his fleet - had been slaughtered, but he'd retreated successfully and bought enough time for the patchwork reinforcements to let him take and hold the planet. He'd failed before, but he'd been persistent, and come back to finish the job properly. The _Hyperion_ might have escaped him once, but he would find another way.

An eye-blink brought forth a strange intercept from Psyker Command: apparently a "metal monster" ('Space Marine,' the Admiral translated automatically) was causing havoc in one of the freighters tailing the Terran battlecruiser. Inspiration struck, and the Admiral paused for a second before sending his orders out. The situation was tenuous, and it merely needed a spark. In fact… he altered his orders, sending out the _Armageddon_'s Alpha Squadron. This time, he and they would do the job properly.

Menials finishing the repairs to the _Armageddon_'s bridge reflexively flinched at the laughter coming from the ever-shadowy command throne.

* * *

**Armory, battlecruiser **_**Hyperion**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

"Report." Horner's voice, calm once again, cut through his subordinate's panicked babble.

"Sir, the big ship over there" – now a euphemism for the Imperial fleet – "it's launched fighters, and they're heading in our direction. Plus, we've got a distress call from one of the Agrian stragglers. It's the…uh, _Ship for Brains_, and the captain's yelling to us about some Marines or something tearing up his hold."

Raynor sighed slowly. "Please tell me you've got some good news."

"Sorry, sir, it gets worse. Looks like the 'Marines' over in the freighter are Imperials, and one's a psyker. Either that, or he's found a way to put Tesla coils in his eyes." The operator's attempts at a joke went over like a lead balloon with the _Hyperion_'s leaders.

"Cowboy, no way in hell is this a coincidence," Swann piped up. "Hey, radio op, what color are the crazy Marines over there?"

"One sec, boss…green and white, they're saying."

Swann snapped his claw once. "See? It's not right, somehow. Those green-white fellas actually like us, not like the red armored ones."

Matt picked up on the train of thought. "And the green-white ones don't seem to get along well with their Navy men. Why would the Navy be supporting them?"

"It's a trap," Raynor concluded.

"A trap?" Swann seemed unsure. "So they're going to destroy a couple of their own people over here?"

"Not for them," Raynor stated quickly, his voice unable to keep up with his thoughts. "Trap's for us, fellas. We do anything to harm them, the Imperial flyboys got a reason to blast us all."

Swann scratched his chin. "So, all we gotta do is ignore them and they'll have to go away?"

Raynor paused for a second. "Looks like. We stay out of their hair, the flyboys got no reason to blast us. I think they're too divided on us to decide, which means they need a reason right now to wipe us out. Long as we don't give them a reason to shoot us, we should be OK."

Matt was busy checking the armory's limited holodisplay. "Sir? You're not going to like this."

* * *

Four left. 4/10. 2/5. 60% casualties, from mere minutes – less! – of combat.

It didn't look any better any way you put it. Sword Flight had gotten savaged, without even the dignity of shooting back against those "Lightning" interceptors. Lt. Imai and Swords 4, 6, and 8 had buried their troubles in the cantina for days, nervous crewmen keeping them away from "Imperials" tramping through the ship. They'd drunk, they'd cried, they'd reminisced, and they'd sworn to get even.

It was a Wraith pilot's lifestyle, really. Despite speed and stealth, the agile fighters had short lifespans – Wraith pilots were called "hotshots" for more than just their personalities. They burned up, too damn often, and this wasn't the first time that Imai had sworn revenge against an enemy that'd claimed another squadron mate. They'd carried it out, too, carving their names into the enemy with blood and Gemini missiles. Raynor might play nice with the "Imperials" for now, but Imai and the remnants of Sword Flight only saw targets.

After one too many bitch-sessions in the _Hyperion_'s cantina, Horner had assigned them to fly CAP for the civilian fleet, more to keep Sword Flight away from the bottle than for any real defense reasons. They were darting between lumbering _Hercules_-class freighters and streamlined _Albatross_ passenger ships when the call came in.

"X-ray, X-ray, X-ray, we have unidentified contacts approaching from over there," announced the radio operator, too flustered to keep proper radio discipline. Imai ignored the stuttering radio op, her attention focused on the contacts showing up on her display. The _Hype_ had her weapons systems off, and only her nav sensors were tracking the targets, but Imai recognized the contacts and the attack pattern.

Lt. Imai clicked her mike to squadron-only broadcast. "It's them. Translators are calling them 'Alpha Squadron,' or something like that. Whatever they're called, they're ours now. Turn and burn, mask heat-sigs by skirting the civvies, and stealth once you've hit 250." Fluent in Wraith-speak, the other three Wraiths of Sword Flight turned and engaged their main engines, the muted heat signatures lost amid the muddle of the civilian fleet they were escorting. As the four Wraiths hit 250,000 kilometers per hour, they cut their engines and engaged their stealth systems. Rapidly shunting thermal energy to internal heat sinks and sending power to their passive emissions-control systems, the Wraiths quickly went "black-on-black" against the vacuum of space.

Communicating on tight-beam transmissions, Sword Four asked, "Boss, how're we going to hit them? I don't bet our Geminis will do much against those damn things." Due to his own screwup, Sword Four had missed the plasma explosion that had claimed the rest of the flight. Survivor's guilt had gnawed at him, and Imai knew he desperately wanted to take the flight's killers down.

"Check your missile loads, and load the fourth one," Imai ordered. "I got one of the armory techs to put a single nuke in the tubes and to hide it like a regular missile, just in case we got the chance." Transmitting the correct missile code to her flight-mates, Imai watched as a single missile on her display blinked from a conventional white to a deadly radiation-yellow. Muffled curses over the radio let her know that the other Swords had noticed the change.

"Sword Flight, Sword Flight, RTB, I repeat, abort mission and return to base ASAP," called the radio op. Imai ignored him, her attention focused on her heads-up display as the distance between her and her targets slowly shrunk.

"Sword Flight, Sword Flight, do not attack, I repeat, do _not_ attack those Imperials!" squawked the radio operator, now frantic.

"You sure 'bout this, boss?" asked Sword Six. Imai almost cursed him out, before reminding herself that Six was her second-in-command now and supposed to be the voice of reason. "Revenge," she whispered, more to herself than to her squadron. "They took ours. Now we take theirs."

Heavily stealthed, the four nuclear-armed Wraiths flew towards the ten Lightning interceptors of the _Armageddon_'s Alpha Squadron in a moment eerily reminiscent of the same incident nine days earlier. Deep within the Agrian ships, a little girl unconsciously turned her head and uttered words she didn't understand:

"And so we dally on the threshold of apocalypse."

* * *

**Freighter **_**Ship for Brains**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

"Secondary objective: Secure asset for ext-"

**Thud.**

"Father Jeffries" gave up his identity and mission litany under the strain, the man formerly known as "David Brie" half-stumbling away from his doom. The bulkhead behind him nearly clipped the agent as it flew past, slamming an unfortunate Agrian civilian against the wall. Ignoring the blood squelching underneath his boots and the bone-and-brain chunks decorating the walls, the Dominion agent kept running. The constant pounding behind him never abated, and the electric sparks running along the bulkheads kept getting closer.

Vaulting through another hatch and slamming the seal to gain himself another second, "Jeffries's" hand adjusted the psy-screen implant at the base of his skull. He'd known the dangers of the damn thing, but he'd finally given in around the asset's seventh birthday and kept it on whenever the asset – _girl_ – was nearby. He'd kept it going ever since the Zerg invasion, and he knew that it'd started to tear his mind apart. Then again, without the screen the asset could do it perfectly well on her own, or the psychic "Imperial" behind him.

**Thud.**

As the hatch behind him predictably flew apart under the psychic assault, the agent reached for his nav system and flipped the failsafe open once again. The "inoculation" he'd given earlier this year was still viable, and with a single flick of the switch he could mission-kill the asset and deny its use to the enemy. "Jeffries" knew he should've already done it – he had a snowball's chance in hell of getting away from the monster behind him, and the mission always came first in times like this. Wheezing as another spell of dizziness hit him, David-"Jeffries" kept running.

* * *

Space Marines, despite their constant Litanies of Hatred, are surprisingly calm in practice. Considering that blood-rage is an easy road to Chaos, Chaplains unsurprisingly counsel against it, and most Marine officers avoid encouraging anger in order to preserve good discipline.

Librarian Marcellus had passed "anger" a long time ago. Now his entire body and armor were covered in psychic fire, the neosteel of the ship's hull scorched and burning in his wake. He'd known that this "Father Jeffries" would be an elusive target, but the man had proven to be worse than the Eldar about avoiding a fight.

A single memory cut through the Librarian's internal storm: _Yes, young idiot! You have a brain, so start using it!_ Remembering his own mentor's advice and cuffs to the head, Marcellus slowed and reached out with tendrils of psychic power. Without the turbulence of the "normal" Warp to hinder him, the Librarian could see with near-perfect clarity through his psychic senses, and he immediately locked in on the unnaturally quiet signature of his target. Ignoring his confused subordinates, the Marine reached through space and clotheslined the enemy agent with a blow to the forehead.

The Astartes found himself chuckling as he strode towards his downed target. _Recover a new piece of heretical technology, find and stop a dangerous young psyker, and get off of this tiny ship. Finally, something's starting to go my way!_

* * *

**Armory, battlecruiser **_**Hyperion**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

"Sir, this is bad." Raynor didn't even have to look at Horner; he could feel the desperation in his tone.

"Yeah," Raynor responded hollowly. They were heading for disaster, and he didn't know what to do. The remnants of Sword Flight, the _Hyperion_'s primary Wraith squadron, were refusing orders and had disappeared from the display. Raynor considered his options: he could try to find and stop the Swords, but he didn't place much hope in that. They only had the _Hyperion_'s upgraded sensors to find the stealthed Wraiths, without a science vessel or a Raven to do the job properly, and a whole lot of space to cover. Besides which, Raynor knew Lt. Imai, and remembered that she was a crafty bitch and damn near impossible to find if she didn't want to be found.

He could warn the Imperials – Raynor quashed that thought with a mental snort. His 'supporters' over there were on the fence about Terrans, at best, and wouldn't back him up if the Swords started shooting. He could run…but the civvies couldn't, not soon enough at least.

"Give me the comm," Raynor ordered, striding over to the armory's central console. Swann yielded it with some reluctance, and the resistance fighter tried to reason with an unreasonable pilot.

* * *

**Freighter **_**Ship for Brains**_

**High orbit, Agria, Terran Dominion**

**June 28, 998.M41**

**Event + 9 days**

He was a dead man.

Oh, his heart still beat clearly and his mind was still his own. His arms and legs still functioned, and a strangled gasp of pain let him know he still had a voice. Dominion Intelligence operative David Brie knew, nevertheless, that he would die when that Imperial caught up with him. From the sounds of it, his life could be measured in minutes, perhaps even seconds.

"Primary objective: Ensure asset security from hostile agents. Terminate if necessary."

His hand hovering on the failsafe trigger, David Brie considered his options. _Screw it_. He knew his mission, he knew his duty. Without extraction from her environment and proper Ghost training, Stella Waters was a potential threat to the Dominion. He couldn't let personal feelings for the asset get in the way of the mission. Her injection was recent, and the kill-switch was virtually a guaranteed kill against someone that small.

Yet no matter how much he tried, "Jeffries's" hand hovered over the failsafe. He knew the mission, he knew the stakes involved. Yet his memory slowly, unstoppably drew back to the Sunday school classes he'd taught on Agria, teaching half-remembered lessons from his own youth to wide-eyed colonist kids. "Jeffries" loved them like his own kids, and could remember them with picture-perfect clarity. David knew what he had to do, but "Jeffries" couldn't pull the trigger.

A last **Thud**, and he was out of time. "Jeffries" watched mutely as the green-white-armored giant loomed high above his broken body. He felt the psychic yank that ripped the psy-screen from the base of his neck in a shower of blood, and the psychic presence that bored through his mental shields.

Father Jeffries came to a conclusion. A quick hand-flick armed the nav system's incendiary detonator, and a coded series of blinks armed his personal suicide method. As Stella's kill-switch trigger burned itself to slag in his hand, and as his own brain melted before the Imperial could read it, Father Jeffries smiled and accepted his fate.

* * *

Failure. The Marine rolled the idea around in his head for a moment, before deciding that he didn't like the sound of it.

He hadn't done it often. A genetically-enhanced superhuman clad in ceramite and exotic alloys, armed with Imperial faith and Warp firepower, Librarian Marcellus hadn't failed a mission for the last three decades. Yet here, now, his target lay dead before him with a brain that was quickly turning into unrecognizable goo. A quick psychic scan found the enemy agent's mind gone, and a taste of his brain matter found it too poisoned to be useful. Many Marines used the omophagea in their gut to glean memories from the recently-deceased, but the enemy agent's suicide technique seemed almost tailor-made to prevent that.

Shaking his head, the Librarian turned away and witnessed the results of his single-minded pursuit. Shattered bulkheads gaped at him, the wide-eyed humans cowering behind them not much better. Several uniformed Terrans were already pointing small arms at the Marines, while a child sobbed next to the corpse of the human he'd regrettably crushed in his pursuit.

Marcellus cast his mind outwards, smelling the rancid stink of shock and fear throughout this Terran ship, along with anger and hate directed towards the armored destroyers – them. Turning away to see the fleet's status, the Librarian was horrified to see Terran strikecraft, white-hot with anger and fury, race towards confused and unwary Imperial pilots.

_I caused this_. The thought echoed in the Marine's mind, rueful and tinged with regret. Turning back to the corpse that had caused him so much trouble, the Librarian glanced at the tiny electronic device nestled in his ceramite-clad gauntlets. It was a small plastic chip, still streaked with blood from where he'd ripped it from the enemy agent. It was presumably powered by the carrier's own power, somehow: even as he held it, the device's psychic null-space dimmed and died.

The Librarian desperately searched through psychic 'imprints' on the device, on the agent's corpse, on _anything_, to find out what this unknown weapon was and what it could do. Lost in thought, he ignored the unarmed civilian walking towards him.

"That…that's a psi-screen," stammered the man, shocked. Marcellus quickly turned to the terrified civilian, catching the relevant information with a sweep of the man's surface thoughts. _Dominion psi-screen, rarer than nukes and more expensive, only given to Dominion agents…_

Had Marcellus not learned the value of keeping a dignified façade, he would have punched the air and yelled for joy. As it was, the Librarian somberly opened his mind to the ship and mentally announced, _Attention, Terrans! I have caught a Dominion agent_ – he showed glimpses of the tiny "psi-screen" device and several whispers from "Jeffries's" mind – _and stopped him from calling the Dominion fleet here to destroy us all._ It was a lie, but one that the Librarian sold with gusto and more than a little desperation. He had no doubt that these Terrans, frightened and looking for comfort, would believe his words.

That still left the Librarian with an uncontrolled psyker, and a powerful one at that, running around on an unsecured starship. Marcellus momentarily considered ordering a Thunderhawk to destroy the ship, before abruptly reconsidering. _I've done enough damage for one day_. Instead, the Librarian retraced his passage through the ship, awkwardly trying to fit broken hatches back into place and to re-seal broken bulkheads. As he gently lifted a broken girder from his path, the Librarian wryly considered that he was much better suited for destroying than for creating.

And deep inside the _Ship for Brains_, a hunched figure cowered in stark terror, peering through the ventilation grille at old Father Jeffries. He'd fallen, and then that little plastic thing had flown out of his head, and then Stella had heard him clearly. He sounded so sad, like he'd lost someone too, and then…then the _other_ had caught him. Then it had gotten really bad.

Stella decided that the _other_ was never going to catch her. Never never never.

* * *

"Talk to me."

A pause.

"Imai, talk to me."

A pause.

"1st Lt. Imai, this is your commanding officer. Talk to me or by God I swear I'll arrest your ass and put you on dropship duty for the rest of your miserable life!"

"Sir, I-" Closing her commlink, Lt. Imai mentally kicked herself. _You can take the girl out of the military, but you can't take the military out of the girl_. A quiet laugh from Sword 6 let her know that her team was listening in.

"Imai, this'll end badly. You know it."

A pause.

"The flyboys over there are looking for a reason to blast us all, Imai. You take that shot and it's war – and we'll lose that war real quick, no doubt about it."

A pause.

"Imai, there are almost ten thousand refugees in the ships behind us. If you take that shot, you've signed their death warrants."

Imai found herself choking up. "Sir, they fucking killed my people! They're waiting for a chance to take us all out! They're-"

"I know." Raynor sounded regretful, and Imai knew the Boss actually _was_ regretful. No matter how often or how bad the Boss hit the bottle, the whole crew knew he believed in the cause with his whole heart. "Imai, they're bad all around, no doubt about it. But there're too many lives on the line for us to screw this up."

A pause.

"Warren Mears. Seven years old. Lived at Planetfall Point, now in the _Arrellaga_. Cute picture, actually – the little guy looks like he drives his momma crazy. The _Arrellaga_ wouldn't even survive a single laser blast from the _Hyperion_, let alone anything those Imperials have."

A pause.

"Ying Ni. Nine years old. She doesn't have her two front teeth in this picture, so she's about the cutest little thing you ever saw. She's living with both her parents on the _Quetzalcoatl_, which is still leaking atmo right now and probably wouldn't even hold up to a Gemini missile from your Wraiths."

A pause. Imai blinked away tears, her deep-seated _need_ for revenge warring against her core of morality that had led her to abandon the Dominion to join up with a ragtag bunch of 'freedom fighters.' For a single moment, Imai's finger was poised over the weapons controls, her single nuclear missile armed and target lock blinking a deadly green.

**No.**

The psychic voice didn't force her, didn't coerce or yank her hands from the controls. It said a single word to the four pilots, loaded with more regret than any of them would feel in ten lifetimes. Imai and her flightmates felt the sorrows of a galaxy's worth of mistakes and screwups crush them down, of a single bad choice damning civilizations, planets, species to ruin. Despite the high-oxygen mix they were all breathing, all four Wraith hotshots felt themselves hyperventilating under the guilt and pain and _oh God why_-

Then the voice was gone, and the four pilots found themselves coasting towards annihilation with their fingers on the triggers. Six was the first to break, turning and burning towards home and leaving his comrades' murderers behind. Eight was on his tail shortly after.

Imai found herself moving in slow motion, still in control but almost detached from her movements. Carefully, like demonstrating for the instructors back in the Academy, she safed her weapons and deactivated the targeting system, closing the missile bays and venting emissions back into space. She slowly reefed her Wraith into a turn, the engine vibrating the hull of her tiny craft. Swords Six and Eight showed up as dots on her display, but Four was still in stealth and heading towards the enemy.

Lt. Imai reached for the com slowly, clicking it open for several seconds before saying anything. "Let it go."

"Ma'am, I-"

"Tim. You did good. Now let it go."


End file.
